


The Gemini Affair

by manic_intent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, NOTE: Most of this fic will be T-Rated, Napoleon gets bored waiting for his next assignment, That postcanon fic where everyone is now employed in New York, and the world has one too many super secret independent spy organisations, spoilers for the film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the first month of being co-opted into working with Illya Kuryakin full time at U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon stole Illya’s father’s watch four times, twice out of spite, once out of drunken curiosity, and once out of sheer boredom. After the fourth time, Gaby sprained one of Napoleon’s fingers and threatened to do worse if he did it again. </p><p>“You are not a spy,” she told him firmly, dangling the watch out of reach as Napoleon curled in a wincing, fetal position on his Le Corbusier couch in his upstate apartment. “You are a thief with the self-control of a child. Now give me back my ring.” </p><p>“What ring?” Napoleon asked innocently, even through the pain.</p><p>“How fond are you of your nose?” Gaby shot back blandly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> … So I watched the Man from U.N.C.L.E. … :) 
> 
> I have a particular love for the Spy vs Spy sort of genre, especially Cold War era. Needless to say I loved the film. Henry Cavill and Armie Hammer have a lot of chemistry, and Alicia was hilarious and so kickass. And I do like how MI6 was pretty much the agency that came out on top at the end (don’t they always, etc).
> 
> I have not however watched the TV show, nor do I normally have the patience for TV shows… so this is a story based totally on speculation, rushed research, and just the film, and there will be errors (Eg I only realized that ‘Peril’ was Solo’s nickname for Illya AFTER the film lol, when reading reviews… before that I was all Isn’t his name Illya? Illya Pavel is it? Eh? Is that even a Russian surname? What?). So… enjoy?

I.

In the first month of being co-opted into working with Illya Kuryakin full time at U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon stole Illya’s father’s watch four times, twice out of spite, once out of drunken curiosity, and once out of sheer boredom. After the fourth time, Gaby sprained one of Napoleon’s fingers and threatened to do worse if he did it again.

“You are not a spy,” she told him firmly, dangling the watch out of reach as Napoleon curled in a wincing, fetal position on his Le Corbusier couch in his apartment. “You are a thief with the self-control of a child. Now give me back my ring.” 

“What ring?” Napoleon asked innocently, even through the pain.

“How fond are you of your nose?” Gaby shot back blandly. 

Napoleon grimaced. Illya had clearly been a bad influence. “It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”

“That wasn’t hard, was it?” 

“You do realize that the ring is a tracker?” 

“Yes, I know. I think it’s sweet,” Gaby said, which, if anything, showed that Napoleon would never understand women. Sourly, he nursed his injury with a good scotch and showed up to work the next day, gloved up and as fresh-faced as painkillers could allow. 

U.N.C.L.E. betrayed its MI6 roots quite clearly by having its New York office in the secret back room of a tailor shop, of all things, and, to Napoleon’s count, also had at least three secret entrances, of which Napoleon had been authorised to only know one. Thanks to his particular sense of curiosity when bored that had contributed to the heightening blood pressure of all of Napoleon’s previous handlers to date, Napoleon had within the second week of his new (?) employment figured out the second entrance, but not the third. Five weeks into the new engagement now and counting, the thought nagged at Napoleon as he stepped through the fake door in a changing room, arrived into a concrete corridor, and eventually ended up in a round white chamber with a circular table and three chairs. 

Gaby smiled brightly at Napoleon when he walked into the chamber, dressed in bright red shift baby-doll dress: Pierre Cardin, perhaps, with a cream pillbox hat. Beside her, Illya looked militantly dowdy, sitting straight-backed in his chair before the round briefing table, with his ever-present cap and brown jacket, raising an eyebrow slightly as he glanced at Napoleon’s gloved hands. Napoleon offered him a sharp smile as he took a seat beside Gaby, slouching into the plastic chair.

“Having fun yet?” Napoleon asked Illya, and his frown deepened fractionally.

“You ask me that every morning.”

“Out of the spirit of our newfound friendship.” 

“Yesterday I played hide and seek with my CIA tail across Central Park.” Illya said in a thickly accented monotone. “Everyone had good exercise.” 

“Sounds like it was a good day.” 

Illya scowled, and looked away from him. “I am wasting time here. Every day we must show ourselves in this room. Every day we do not see this Waverly and are told to go and come back tomorrow. I have work to do back home. We were meant to have gone to Istanbul. Why are we here?" 

“So relax. See the sights. It’s New York.” Napoleon suggested. 

“I am a KGB spy in enemy territory. I do not ‘relax’,” Illya said, suggesting very strongly that he was going to be stubbornly melodramatic about it all. Napoleon looked to Gaby for support, but she was ignoring them both, relaxed in her chair. 

“The two of you could go to the theatre,” Napoleon tried to be encouraging. There had been something going on between Gaby and Illya, hadn’t there? Napoleon wasn’t entirely sure. He was not particularly good with people, unless they had to be stolen or smuggled somewhere. 

Illya swung his glower back towards him. “You actually like this? Doing nothing?”

“I am thinking of it as a well-deserved holiday,” Napoleon admitted, because ever since being netted over by the CIA his life had been one unrelenting series of missions, many of which had been particularly dull and most of which had been unpleasant in some way or another, and he had rather enjoyed the last few weeks of not having Sanders breathing down his neck at every pass. Illya narrowed his eyes, but before he could comment, there was a faint click from the speaker box set in the centre of the table. 

“I’m afraid that I have nothing for you all today,” came Waverly’s brisk voice. “Same time tomorrow.” 

“Wait,” Illya snapped, but there was already the second click, of Waverly signing off. Gaby sighed, and got to her feet, nodding politely at them both before heading briskly to the door. 

Illya’s jaw set, his hands curling slightly on the table, and Napoleon studied him curiously, all those sleek, tense lines, the anger that seemed forever coiled just skin deep, an ugly imperfection that marred Illya’s otherwise strikingly handsome features. 

“Did you ever tell your handler what happened to that disk?” Napoleon asked.

Illya glanced at him, startled. “No. I made contact once, on the way to New York. I presume our orders were the same, since we are both here.”

“No mention of the disk, just an order to listen to Waverly for now but keep patching back? Easy.” 

“It is easier for you,” Illya said sourly. “This is your country. While your CIA is not so comfortable with me being here.” 

“I’m surprised that this is even happening at all.” At Illya’s slight frown, Napoleon added, “Never thought how strange it was that we didn’t just get shot by our respective agencies in short order? We technically committed treason.” 

Illya shrugged. “I would have told my handler that his information was wrong. Had he asked.” 

It wasn’t that easy for Illya, that Napoleon could see now: Illya was trying to sound casual, but there was a wary tension to him, his feet pressed flat on the ground, like a cornered animal, and Napoleon suddenly felt _sorry_ for the KGB spy, or at least, sympathetic. Had this strange offer from Waverly never surfaced, Napoleon would have gone back to Sanders with a bland smile and a wink and would probably have just suffered through a few particularly bad assignments as a punishment. He was the best that the CIA had, and Sanders knew it: it would be a waste for them to shoot him. The KGB, on the other hand, were not in the least sentimental that way.

“I nearly shot you,” Napoleon admitted then. “I was thinking about it.”

“Why didn’t you?” 

“I didn’t want to. I was thinking about how stupid it all was. How pointless. Working together and then for what? Whomever of us made it back to our handler would just unleash another World War.” 

Illya snorted. “You are a bad spy.”

“You didn’t shoot me either.”

“My hands were full,” Illya said shortly, and started to get tiredly to his feet. “See you tomorrow, Cowboy.” 

“Wait.” Napoleon said impulsively, and when Illya stared at him, he added, “Aren’t you curious?”

“About what?”

“About this place. About Waverley, U.N.C.L.E., about why the KGB loaned you out here.” 

“Curiosity is not a good trait for a spy.” Illya said pointedly, though he settled back into his seat. “Why do you ask?”

“We’ve only seen this room and the tailor shop. Surely there’s more.” 

“You are looking for trouble. It is a bad habit.”

“Says the man who caused a miniature CIA meltdown yesterday on a whim.” 

“So what do you suggest?” Illya inquired, his drawled tone strongly indicating that he did not expect to hear any good ideas at all, which was rather hurtful, in Napoleon’s opinion.

“I think this is all a test,” Napoleon said, shooting from the hip. “We’re the best agents from our agencies. It makes no sense to keep us in New York and just get us to report in every morning and do nothing else.” 

“… Assuming that I agree with you,” Illya said thoughtfully, “What do you suggest?” 

“There are three ways into these facilities. The tailor shop, the Masque Club, and one more. Stands to reason. The tailor shop entry only gets us this far.”

“You have tried the Masque Club?” Illya was leaning forward, perhaps a good sign. 

“As a matter of fact, yes. It leads to a room exactly like this one.” 

“And that made you think that there was another way in?” Illya rolled his eyes.

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“No, Cowboy,” Illya said, very dryly. “I think it is more likely that these two ‘entrances’ lead to two separate saferooms, of which this is one. Life is not always like movies. The world is not usually full of secret hideouts.”

“We had some plans to build a network of fallout shelters after the big war,” Napoleon retorted casually.

“Yes. I heard. Apparently your Congress did not allow it. But such a system is inefficient. Better to design your subways to be a shelter. Dual use. To do otherwise is a waste.” Illya shook his head. “Typically American.” 

“It turns out that we did build a few,” Napoleon ignored him. “I found the plans from a visit to the FCDA.” 

“‘Found’, you say.” Illya pointedly fingered his watch. 

“The plans are an old version. But we do seem to be sitting on the two indicative entrances into one of the planned shelters. Coincidence?” 

“That your CIA would be so incompetent as to allow an entirely independent spy organisation to build an operations network under its nose?” Illya paused, thinking this over. “… Eh. Possible.”

“Thank you.” 

“I hear there is something similar in London.”

“Really? There’s more than one independent spy agency with borrowed CIA and KGB spies with its own agenda?” Somehow though, Napoleon wasn’t surprised. 

“Probably. So. What do you want to do?”

“Well. You could go back to playing tag with the CIA, or you could help me break into a moving CIA black site that contains updated copies of all the US government architectural plans ever made. Any other entrances should be noted down there.” 

Illya stared at him for a long time. “I thought you liked to work alone,” he said, at last.

“I might need someone to serve as a distraction.” 

“I think,” Illya said very dryly, “That you are very bored, and you are looking for trouble.” 

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you in, or not?” 

“There is an easier way to do this. Gaby was recruited by Waverly. No doubt she knows him well. If this is a test, we could just ask her.” 

“You have no soul,” Napoleon said sadly, and stole Illya’s watch again on his way out.

i.

Illya had now been in New York for a week longer than he had ever been on a mission on American soil, and he was chafing at the bit. Working for the KGB had made him used to a structured system of command, and to be left at loose ends in New York was… unwelcome. The KGB had not even asked him to make use of his relative freedom to do some work on the side, which was unnerving, and polite queries to Oleg as to exactly what U.N.C.L.E. did or stood for was met with impolite retorts to mind his own business.

It took him half an hour today to lose his CIA tail, after which Illya found himself outside the Masque Club, to his personal annoyance. He’d let that irritating American thief get under his skin again. Scowling to himself, and now keenly missing his watch, Illya loitered at the rooftop of a shophouse block facing the Masque Club, out of view from the street, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. 

There _was_ an easier way to do this. He could have just talked to Gaby. She was still wearing her tracker, after all. She wouldn’t be difficult to find. They could have had a laugh over Solo’s childishness over tea and… and Illya would have gone back to being nervous and disoriented and out of sorts. At least this felt like he was back in the game.

Or maybe Solo’s childishness was more virulent than even Illya had suspected. 

He stared sourly at the innocuous entrance to the Masque Club. It was a nightclub, which meant that at present in the early afternoon it was closed, windows shuttered. There was a back entrance that had been locked tight, and it had high windows that were locked tight - not a problem for Illya, but difficult to manage in the middle of the day without the general public noticing. Illya had settled out of habit for a vantage point that would keep both the back alley and the front entrance in sight, and now was feeling rather foolish about it all.

Damn Solo and his flights of fancy. Illya let out a slow breath, and was about to head off the roof when the main door to the Club opened, and a blonde woman stepped out, in a cream pea coat, sunglasses and a brilliantly coloured headscarf, blithely out of place. Startled, Illya hastily fished out his binoculars from within his jacket, and focused his sights, even as the lady turned on her heel and melted into the crowd, her step brisk. Illya tucked his binoculars away and darted down the fire escape, and managed to catch sight of her pea coat as he turned the corner out of the alley, disappearing down a junction, and he followed her, keeping his head down and an eye out for his CIA tail, off several streets, until they were heading underground, into the subway.

The woman promptly let herself into a service door, closing it behind her, and now Illya hesitated, his instincts all afire. This was not his affair, and the KGB often frowned on personal initiative, particularly where it might compromise another asset’s mission. 

But he was not now in the KGB, was he? Looking around carefully, Illya waited for a lull in the crowd before he too let himself through the service door - and found himself facing the barrel of a gun. 

The blonde woman smiled, sharp and tight like a predator, and instantly, Illya now recognised his own kind. “KGB, I presume.” The woman had a British accent, crisp and polished, and she looked like she was in her late thirties, her curls brushing her shoulders, her aim unwavering. She had killed before. 

“Not presently…?” If he died here, Illya quietly swore on his soul that he would come back as a vengeful ghost and haunt Napoleon Solo. 

“Why are you following me?”

Illya actually didn’t have a good answer for that, and was calculating whether he should try and run for it or make a play for the gun when the service door opened abruptly behind him.

Solo stared at the both of them in seemingly genteel surprise. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Now we are both going to die,” Illya muttered, but the woman merely frowned at them both, as though finally noticing something that Illya could not see, and then she motioned curtly with her gun. 

“Step outside and close the door, gentlemen. And if I see either of you again I’ll shoot first and ask questions later. Consider this your first and final warning. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am,” Solo said hastily, backing off, and soon they were back outside, in the rush of the crowd, breathing hard. 

“What are you doing here?” Illya hissed, once he got his heart rate under control.

“Same reason you are. I saw her leave the club. She’s Victoria Winslow,” Solo added quietly, as the crowd lulled again. “In case you didn’t recognise her.”

“The first female double-0?” Illya blinked. “She is meant to be dead. There was some… problem, with a KGB agent.” It had caused quite the scandal at the time.

“She’s not the only presumed-dead asset I’ve seen coming out of the Marque Club or the tailor shop. I’ve seen ex-Mossad, the DST… even retired CIA.”

So this was not an elaborate MI6 prank to waste their time. Good to know. “I will talk to Gaby,” Illya said reluctantly.

“You do that.” 

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Follow the service tunnel.” 

“If that is truly Victoria Winslow, then _you_ are going to die.” The KGB’s dossier on the double-0s and their exploits was fairly complete.

Solo smirked. “Perhaps. See you again tomorrow morning?”

“… Fine.” Illya scowled. Solo turned back towards the door, but hesitated when Illya caught his sleeve. “Wait.” 

“Careful, Peril,” Solo raised his eyebrows; under his sleeve, all Illya could feel was solid muscle, tensing slightly under his touch. “I might think that you’re starting to care.” 

“Give me back my watch. Again.”

“Force of habit,” Solo said, not in the least apologetic, though he palmed that out from within his suit. “Happy now?”

“Satisfied,” Illya corrected, strapping his watch back on his wrist, though he couldn’t help but tense up when Solo opened the door. The service tunnel was empty, and Solo’s step seemed overloud as he went through and closed the door behind him. 

Illya waited, almost expecting to hear muffled gunfire at any second, then he breathed out instead, irritated, and turned on his heel, leaving the subway. He got as far as the top of the stairs before swearing under his breath and clattering back down, heading through to the service tunnel, keeping his steps light-footed as he circled around the first bend, then another, until he was finally confused and a little lost, at one point even opening a door out into a train tunnel, feeling the rush of wind on his face from an oncoming train for a second before he closed the door quickly. 

Retracing his steps, he nearly walked right into Solo at an intersection, and Solo blinked at him in genuine surprise. “Illya? What are you doing here?”

Illya had no good answer for that, either, and Solo’s stare eventually turned into a smirk. “Aww. You _do_ care.”

“Shut up,” Illya muttered, striding towards the way out. Solo had to jog to keep up. 

“She lost me, but I think she must have headed out again into the main public corridors and gotten on a train.” 

“Not helpful.” 

“You got in contact with Gaby surprisingly quickly,” Solo said, with mock innocence. “Whatever did she say? You know she’s lied to us both very successfully before, which resulted, might I add, in you getting chased by dogs and me getting an intimate introduction to an electric chair. Somehow I rather doubt that the beautiful Miss Teller would hesitate about spinning another Waverly story for us all over again if she had to.” 

“… Fine,” Illya sighed. “Let us hear your grand plan to break into this CIA black site.” 

Solo grinned broadly. “I knew you’d see things my way eventually.” 

“You are going to get us both shot,” Illya said sourly. “But first. Give me back my wallet.”


	2. Chapter 2

II.

Napoleon had actually been to this particular black site before, out of what he had called a Spirit of Innocent Inquiry and what Sanders had called ‘You’re a damned menace, Solo, so help me God’, and it occurred to him as he settled down to wait at one of his personal safehouses that revealing said black site to a KGB spy was quite possibly treasonous in itself. Maybe.

Perhaps this showed in his expression: Illya completed his slow circuit of the sparsely furnished flat, twitched the dusty curtain aside briefly to survey the train tracks that the apartment overlooked, and then glanced back over at Napoleon. “This could get you into a lot of trouble.” 

“I’m always in a lot of trouble,” Napoleon assured him, and Illya snorted.

“Of that I have no doubt. So this black site. It is a train?” At Napoleon’s arched eyebrow, Illya growled, “Unless you bring me here to show me poorly built American train yard. Very nice.”

“Maybe I brought you here to get you alone,” Napoleon said playfully, slouched in one of the few chairs in the apartment, legs stretched apart. “You, me, an empty safehouse-“ 

To his surprise, instead of getting irritated, Illya actually coloured a little and looked away. Homosexuality was still considered a mental disorder in the USA, and it was a criminal act past the Iron Curtain, if Napoleon vaguely recalled. He wasn’t particularly one for paying attention to codes of conduct. Sex was but one form of pleasure, and Napoleon had never particularly seen the logic in preferring men or women. 

He did actually need Illya for the extraction, however, and as such, Napoleon decided to extend a peace offering, and added in a more conciliatory tone, “There are guns and the usual kit under the mat in the bathroom.”

Illya folded his arms and pressed his back against the wall beside the curtained window. “First I want to hear this plan.”

“All right. Yes. The black site is a train. Or more precisely, it is a set of train carriages. Once a month, the carriages roll into this yard and get affixed to a random transcontinental train.”

“This is… surprisingly inefficient. Even for you Americans.” 

“What would your people do?”

Illya shrugged. “Bury it under the Kremlin and lose the key.”

“Which would work,” Napoleon agreed, “If the point of the black site was just to hide documentation.” 

“So this train. It is also… secret prison transport?” Illya let out a sharply bitter sound, a bark; it made Napoleon flinch. “CIA. KGB. We are all the same.”

“I would disagree on the details, but I’m too lazy,” Napoleon said. “But yes. Part of this moving site stores information pertaining to New York. The other stores people, now and then. I’m not interested in that part. With regards to the former, however, the entryway is up top, in a vaulted door that I will need at least five minutes to crack, and I will be highly visible. That’s where you come in.” 

“You realize that if I kill any CIA agents on American soil I will be burned?”

“I’m not asking you to kill anyone,” Napoleon protested, affecting surprise. “That’s such a _nihilistic_ way of approaching the problem, Peril. I’m shocked.”

“How many guards?” 

“Probably only four. It will be very simple,” Napoleon assured Illya confidently, which was why, given the universe’s logic in general, at nightfall as they surveyed their target from the roof of the safehouse, there were no less than eight roving guards, one of whom had a pair of large black dogs, straining at the leash.

“Dogs. I hate dogs.” Illya muttered. 

“They seem to have increased their security since the last time I was here.” 

“So you have broken into this black site before.”

“Not exactly.” 

“You were caught trying to break in,” Illya revised. 

“If you want to put it that baldly, yes. Out of a spirit of inquiry.”

“I am again surprised that you are still alive,” Illya told him, and studied the train yard for a moment longer. “Give me half an hour. Then you should be clear.” Without a further word, Illya slipped over to the fire escape and was soon out of sight. 

Napoleon settled down to wait, having brought himself a nice carafe of mulled wine and some grapes. He had finished both by the time the train yard seemed more or less clear, and as he stowed the carafe away, dabbed his mouth and checked his watch, he noted that only twenty-five minutes had passed. Not bad. 

Strolling over to the train yard, he let himself through the hole in the fence that Illya had cut, and wandered over to the waiting train, hands in his pockets, stepping over the body of a guard. A dart sat like a fat silver fish against the guard’s neck - tranquilised, apparently - and Napoleon picked it up, studied it curiously, then pocketed it. Spirit of inquiry, and all that.

Napoleon climbed up to the top of the second carriage, and to the vault-like trapdoor set on its sunward roof. It took Napoleon a minute to set up his gear, and another three minutes for his equipment to work their magic. This time, he _did_ check for an alarm before he opened the vault door, pulling it up and letting himself in. Distantly, he could hear shouts, and the barking of some maddened dogs, but Napoleon only paused for a moment before shrugging and dropping down lightly into the darkened carriage. 

He switched his torch on and set it in his teeth as he studied the carriage. Napoleon was standing on a narrow walkway, hemmed in by floor to ceiling shelves with no apparent labelling. Frowning, he peered at one set at random, and found it full of dusty, unlabelled files, stacked so tightly together that one folder had almost been squeezed out of a row by its companions. The entire carriage smelled rather unpleasantly of slowly rotting paper and dust. 

A slow circuit of the room thankfully eventually got Napoleon to a set of shelves built for holding stacked scrolls, all blueprints or architectural plans. Napoleon rifled through these carefully for a moment until he found what he was looking for, then tucked the scroll under his arm and hauled himself back up and out of the carriage. He closed the vault door, removed his gear, and strolled briskly back out of the train yard. Two blocks away, Napoleon hailed a cab, and directed the driver to take him back to his usual digs.

Illya showed up at an ungodly hour in the morning, surly, muddy, bleeding gently from a cut from his temple and scowling. Napoleon affected surprise, already dressed down, no jacket, no gloves, new painkillers. “How did you know that I lived here?”

“Tracker,” Illya shot back through clenched teeth, as he stepped through and slammed the door behind him. “The black site’s guard and my CIA tail joined forces. I had to run through the whole city to lose them! You said this would be simple!” 

“We need to talk about your unfortunate tendency to sneak trackers onto all your friends if we’re going to keep working together,” Napoleon told him firmly. “I’m very fond of you but I do have my boundaries.”

“First. You are not a friend. Second, we are never ‘working together’ ever again. _Nikogda_.” Illya took in a deep breath. “So. Did you find this map?”

“Yes… and… no.”

“No? _No_?”

“I think it’s best that I show you,” Napoleon said soothingly, and led Illya over to the dining room table. He had pinned the previously sealed scroll labelled ‘New York Fallout Shelter System’ upon it, an impressively large roll of white card that had, as it were, turned out to be blank. 

“Invisible ink?” Illya guessed.

“Tried the usual methods.” 

“So,” Illya said, with terrible calm, “You have made me go to _all this trouble_ for a… a _blank piece of paper_. Did it not _occur to you_ to _check the plans_ in the _carriage_?” 

“Well no,” Napoleon said, genuinely taken aback, “I didn’t think that the government would go about storing blank pieces of paper-“ which was as far as he got before Illya spat something ugly and tangled and went for him. 

Alarmed, Napoleon hid behind his dining table, even as Illya prowled around it, fingers curled, teeth bared. “By the way,” Napoleon said quickly, “I actually _do_ live in this apartment so I will be somewhat saddened if you have another Neanderthal moment and start smashing everything.” 

“ _Saddened_?” Illya growled, “I’ll show you saddened… stop running away!”

“I am not ‘running away’,” Napoleon corrected, “I’m simply giving you some space. Calm down, man. Let’s have a drink and think about this. There’s probably a reason why it’s blank. Maybe there’s some sort of code, or-“ Napoleon’s words cut off into a yelp as Illya shoved the Vernon dining table with inhuman strength, slamming it into his gut. As Napoleon doubled over, gasping, Illya darted around, grabbing him by his lapels and wrestling him onto the ground. 

Despite appearances and an admittedly poor showing at first instance in a public lavatory, Napoleon was not new to dirty fighting by any means, and he got a knee up into Illya’s belly and had nearly managed to squirm free by the time Illya hissed and slugged him across the jaw. Letting out an outraged yelp, Napoleon twisted blindly, jabbing an elbow tightly up into Illya’s throat, at which point civility seemed to abandon them both and the wrestling match turned into some sort of scrum. 

Illya, however, had either the benefit of superior KGB training and/or superhuman strength, and as such the fight was short lived, grinding Napoleon’s cheek into his Persian rug and twisting an arm brutally behind his back. At least Illya wasn’t trying to kill him, Napoleon thought, even as he tried squirming ineffectively against the submission lock, or it would be those iron-banded fingers around Napoleon’s throat instead of his wrist, and he was breathlessly trying to say something to defuse the murder in the room when his front door opened. 

Gaby stepped through, and lowered her sunglasses as she noticed them tangled on the rug. “Really, boys?”

“Just a friendly bit of exercise,” Napoleon said calmly, wincing as Illya reluctantly let go of his wrist and got to his feet: there’d be a bracelet of bruises there in the morning. Still flushed with temper and scowling up a storm, Illya avoided his eyes, instead glowering at a point beyond Gaby’s shoulder.

It was Waverly, sauntering in without a care in the world and surveying the aftermath of the fight and the blank scroll on the table with a singularly British, clinical interest. 

“Well done, gentlemen.” 

“So it was a test,” Napoleon said, trying not to sound smug and probably failing. Illya refused to meet his glance, his glare now fixed furiously on his shoes. 

“Indeed.” Waverly walked right over to the scroll and picked up the band that had held it into place, turning it briefly against the light, which gleamed off faint wiring pressed into the fabric. “Little something from MI6.” 

“And we pass?” Napoleon prompted.

Waverly let out a deep sigh. “Only on a technicality.” 

“Oh, I _love_ technicalities,” Napoleon said brightly.

ii.

“U.N.C.L.E. does not merely recruit operatives,” Waverly said lounging in one of the few chairs still upright in Solo’s apartment. Solo was busy pouring everyone a scotch, already the urbane host, although Illya could see a brace of mottled red marks on Solo’s wrist, as he corked the glass bottle, and a reddened mark on Solo’s otherwise pristine jaw, and felt his temper settle heavily and uneasily in his gut.

“Then what?” Illya asked, bluntly and perhaps rudely: Solo arched an eyebrow at him that Illya pointedly ignored. “You are wasting our time. If we are meant to be in Istanbul then fly us to Istanbul.” 

“What I am looking to recruit and train,” Waverly ignored the interruption, “Is fixers. And it takes a very particular sort of mind to be a fixer, Mister Kuryakin, particularly in the Great Game, when played beyond national boundaries and on a global scale. U.N.C.L.E. recruits operatives who can not only think for themselves but can also, when presented with a problem, think for the greater good, not just along national loyalties.” 

“So when we destroyed the disk…” Solo trailed off. 

“It was a good start,” Waverly agreed amiably. “Certainly it got our attention. But Section One was not quite entirely convinced. After all, Mister Solo, you are not quite a spy, but a thief, one whose leash the CIA has been winding tighter and tighter yet as your number of ‘sentenced’ years dwindles. Quite likely, had I not stepped in, your penance for destroying the disk would have been a short and ugly end in one of your agency’s black sites. And you knew the end was coming. Why else would you break in and out of them over the years? You were preparing for the end.” 

Solo nodded, to Illya’s surprise, and he stared at the American thief with slightly more respect. Solo _was_ playing the game, if with a different set of goals, and he had been a few steps ahead on all of his boards - including the game he played against his own handlers. 

“And you, Mister Kuryakin,” Waverly added, startling Illya out of his conclusions. “Your family remains disgraced no matter what you do: their past transgressions are held like a yoke around you that you cannot escape. Oleg knows that someday the yoke will snap and you will break one way or the other: yours is an end that will come either in the gulag, like your father, or down the barrel of a gun.” 

“You are saying that we are both loose cannons,” Illya said tightly. “You are wrong. I am nothing like this man.” 

“Yet you chose to destroy the disk.” Waverly shot back. “Was that a mistake?”

It was a mistake. Illya clenched his trembling fingers tightly over his knees, and breathed in, then out, staring at the gleaming surface of the contoured table, past the edge, to the pale rim of his father’s watch, the gentle tick-tick of its minute hand, forever chasing its tail. 

Dimly, he could hear Solo asking lightly, “So what was this technicality? And the test?”

“I am not looking for agents who will listen to orders and obey blindly,” Waverly replied. “Section One needed to see how long it would take for any of you to exercise curiosity and initiative. Traits that are not particularly encouraged along such lines in either of your agencies.” 

Solo looked pointedly at Gaby, who smiled sweetly at him. “I passed quite a while ago. I was already working for U.N.C.L.E. before you met me, remember?” 

“Miss Teller is a pre-existing asset,” Waverly agreed. “Her professionalism is without question. Yours, on the other hand-” 

“I do not think that I can do what you want,” Illya said shortly, his words harsh even to his ears, his accent thickening, and he shoved himself wildly to his feet, striding out from the room. He made it to the lifts before a hurried step behind him told him that Solo was following him. “Go away.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Russia.”

“You heard what Waverly said. You’ll be killed. Or worse. Hey,” Solo added, grabbing at Illya’s elbow, but Illya twisted sharply out of the way, so roughly that he scraped his shoulder against the wall, spinning to face Solo, lips curled. _Like a dog snarling_ , said the laughing men, in the back of his mind, from high above, guttural words spat at his feet in the doorway of his mother’s house, _a little snarling dog-_

“Hey,” Solo repeated, hands gripping Illya’s shoulders, “Calm down, man.” 

“Don’t touch me,” Illya hissed, twisting out of his grip, and the movement pulled Solo’s hands with him, showed him the bright red marks under the pressed knife’s edge of Solo’s white sleeves. The sight was like a cold rush of ice down his back: he blinked dumbly in the soft light of the corridor, heart hammering against his ribs. 

“You’re the best that the KGB has, right?” Solo said soothingly, misunderstanding Illya’s hesitation completely. “What’s wrong with giving this a shot?” 

“I’m not what Waverly is looking for. I don’t _know_ what he’s looking for.”

“Sounds like you’re exactly what he’s looking for,” Solo shot back. “I spent my whole life breaking the rules, Illya. What’s a few more rules to me here and there? But you - you spent your life toeing the line, doing whatever the KGB wanted to the letter. And you still chose to do the right thing where it counted. You turned against everything you ever knew.” 

If he was a dog snarling, Illya thought, staring at Solo’s calm, handsome smile, this was the jackal grinning, fearless, saying whatever it needed to, to get its own way. Dogs would come to heel, but the jackal would go its own way, a thief, a carrion eater, laughing into the dark. 

“Your handler asked you to stay, didn’t he?” Solo kept talking, burrowing deeper. “So stay.”

“You heard what Waverly was saying,” Illya said harshly. “He’s preaching treason. That may not matter to you but it matters to _me_. Work beyond borders? Doing what’s _right_? That’s not how the world works.”

“And yet we did it,” Solo said, in his infuriating, inexorable calm. “We destroyed that disk and had a drink. _We_ did it, Illya. Me? I would’ve done it for the hell of it. But you’re a far better man than you think you are.”

Illya’s fists itched. For moment, the impulse to give Solo a matching set of marks on the opposite side of his jaw, on his other wrist, was so powerful that his hands shook, that his breath stuttered to a halt behind his clenched teeth. But even now the jackal was laughing, and its wildness was like an infection from which Illya could not pull free.

“There are no good men in the KGB,” Illya settled for saying, and Solo’s lips quirked upwards into his maddeningly smug smile. 

“Could say the same for the rest of us sort. But apparently that’s what the world needs, if you believe what Waverly’s selling. What’s the harm, Peril? Come on. One mission. Give it a shot.” 

“… One mission,” Illya conceded. “And then I go home.”


	3. Chapter 3

a.

Whatever Solo had said to Illya to get him to come back and sit quietly through the briefing had banked his ugly temper but not soothed it, and Gaby found herself watching the KGB spy through the corner of her eyes, even as she tried not to make it too obvious that she was sitting closer to Waverly. Illya would never hurt her, she was sure of that, but living behind the wall, with her father who he was, had made her carefully conscious of her allies and her enemies.

“So, Istanbul,” Waverly said urbanely, as though Illya’s burst of rage and Solo’s abrupt mediation hadn’t happened. “As with any mission that you would receive from me, should we continue our association into the future, it happens to be a matter of particular delicacy and international consequence. Both of your governments have requested that the main agents attending to it in question are representatives from the United States and Russia. A joint endeavour again, shall we say.” 

Illya grunted, while Solo glanced thoughtfully at Gaby, then at Waverly, and concluded, “You have a handful of ex-CIA agents in your pocket but Illya here is your first and only KGB operative?” 

“Unfortunately, yes. I could say that KGB training does not usually produce the sort of mindset that U.N.C.L.E. requires in its agents, but that would be untrue. More importantly,” Waverly added, “It was only until the recent matter of uranium enrichment did Russia condescend to allow a representative into U.N.C.L.E.” 

“We’re not full operatives, are we?” Solo inquired. “We’re on loan.” 

“Both your handlers have expressed an interest in your return after the mission, yes. But whether we do return you both to sender remains to be seen.” 

“On what?” Illya demanded bluntly. 

“Why, circumstances, of course.” Waverly raised both his eyebrows. “Such as whether either of you do in fact survive the matter, or whether your performance inspires me to offer either of you a more permanent position in this organisation. But not to worry. Your current loans are both fully sanctioned and that is all you need to know at present. So. Back to the mission. What do either of you know about Project Gemini?”

Solo glanced at Illya, who lifted a shoulder into a light shrug. “The Voskhod program is more advanced.” 

“Don’t you pay attention to politics?” Gaby asked Solo, who still looked openly puzzled. 

“I’ve been really busy the past few years,” Solo admitted, not in the least embarrassed at being caught out. “Usually engaged in a number of unpleasant places. Besides, the CIA doesn’t really require me to have any further background knowledge than what’s enough to get the job done.” 

Illya muttered something under his breath. Before he could say something suitably sardonic, Gaby cut in. “It’s the space race, Solo. Between the United States and Russia? First man in orbit, first man to the moon? It’s only been a core part of your presidential politics.” 

“That explains why I haven’t the faintest clue, then,” Solo said cheerfully. “Spending truckloads of money trying to get people to the moon first, or whatever the goal is? Have at it, in my opinion. Better than bombing each other. Why, it’s positively civilised.” 

“It would be,” Waverly said dryly, “If it were that simple. The so-called ‘space race’, as Miss Teller puts it, only came about due to your arms race. The development of increasingly advanced intercontinental ballistic missiles. The competition-”

“As far as Russia is concerned there is no competition,” Illya interrupted.

“Yes, thank you for your input, Mister Kuryakin. Where was I? So. The _competition_ between the USA and the USSR is not what concerns us at the moment. We don’t particularly care which nation is ahead. However, two months or so ago the comprehensive plans for the construction of NASA’s Agena Target Vehicle were stolen, and backup copies were destroyed.”

“Sounds like a matter for the CIA,” Illya pointed out. 

“Normally, I would agree, and in fact, we did leave it to the CIA to investigate at first instance,” Waverly said briskly, “However, our follow-on sweep of the records left by Victoria Vinciguerra turned up a mention of ‘Project Gemini’, with regards to an otherwise unremarkable location in Istanbul. This is where the three of you come in.”

“Three?” Solo repeated. “I thought that you wanted this mission run by an American and a Russian.” 

“With a suitable third party as a handler, of course,” Gaby said, and grinned at Solo’s incredulous stare. 

He coughed. “Not that I’m questioning your professionalism and track record-“

“I am,” Illya growled. “Do you have any experience as a handler?”

“I think she’s done quite well steering the two of you about with regards to the Vinciguerra mission,” Waverly said briskly. “Miss Teller will serve as a point of contact between myself and the both of you. She will also wield what available U.N.C.L.E. resources are necessary in Istanbul to assist the two of you with your mission.” 

“I’m the money,” Gaby translated sweetly. “So play nice, boys.” 

“Fantastic,” Illya murmured, even as Solo grinned at her and said, “I’m _always_ nice.” 

“Investigate the location in Istanbul and, if possible, acquire the stolen ATV plans,” Waverly said briskly. “Miss Teller will fill you in with the rest of what you need to know. Oh, and gentlemen? Don’t follow other agents about in your spare time. It’s terribly rude.” Waverly nodded at them, got up from his seat, and left the apartment with a hand tucked casually in a pocket. 

“We have a private jet waiting for us tomorrow morning. Meet me at Hangar 3 at Idlewild at nine hundred hours,” Gaby told them, checking her watch. “I’ll update you both on the plane. In the meantime, get some rest.” 

“I’ll walk you out,” Illya offered, getting to his feet. 

Solo merely smiled at them both. “See you two in the morning. Don’t stay up too late.” 

Gaby rolled her eyes at him as she went. Illya was sullenly silent all the way down the lift to the street, however, and outside, in the chill, Gaby noted, “Waverly’s called off the hunt, but it’s late. Do you need me to drop you off somewhere?” 

“No,” Illya said shortly, though he briefly eyed Gaby’s red Corvette. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Getting involved. With Waverly, everything. You are free. Is it a matter of debts?”

“It’s a fair sight better than being a secretary,” Gaby planted her hands on her hips.

“You have options. And connections. Join the army. Or open another chopshop.”

“Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you yet,” Gaby said evenly, “But I can see the good that U.N.C.L.E. does. Maybe I want to be involved.” 

“Greater good,” Illya said, and spat. 

“Don’t give me that. You don’t believe in the Cold War any more than Solo does,” Gaby shot back. “Communism, capitalism, you don’t really care all that much. If you did, Waverly wouldn’t have tried to recruit you.”

“Careful,” Illya said quietly. 

“If you did,” Gaby repeated, “Your handlers wouldn’t have to push you so much, would they?” 

Illya’s eyes glittered from what she could see of them from the streetlights, but his hands remained loose at his sides, and eventually, he was the one who looked away. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“I will, when _you_ understand that you’re not in Russia anymore,” Gaby shot back. “I’m not _your_ Russian girl, nor will I behave according to whatever it is you think is part of the Russian way. I’m now your handler. Deal with it.” 

Illya stared at her with surprise, and for a moment Gaby wondered if her own little flash of temper had flared too hot. She did need Illya along on the mission, working willingly, and antagonising him again from the start was not the best way to go about it. 

It didn’t help that Illya was so toweringly tall, so physically imposing when they were alone, so savagely handsome. For all that Illya clearly could hold his own, whether in a mission or arguing with Solo over women’s fashion, in a way it felt as though he was all rough edges where Solo was not, and Gaby wasn’t sure yet how to handle it. Getting… involved… with Illya would be simple, that much Gaby knew. But it would compromise her future with U.N.C.L.E. as a free agent, and that she could not accept. 

“See you tomorrow,” Illya said at last, if not quite gracefully.

“Rest up,” Gaby replied, by way of a peace offering, and he nodded at her and walked away, hands in his pockets, eventually turning down a street and out of sight.

“Nicely done,” Solo said quietly, from the shadow of the apartment foyer.

“Mind your own business, Solo,” Gaby said dryly, without looking back, and got into her car.

III.

“Why did your parents call you Napoleon?” Illya asked, as the plane taxied for takeoff. “He was French general who surrendered and died in prison.”

“Also one of the greatest commanders in history,” Napoleon pointed out.

Illya sniffed. “You are no great commander.”

“Then maybe I won’t die in prison,” Napoleon said cheerfully. 

“The two of you, stop it,” Gaby muttered, though she didn’t look up from her magazine. 

The plane that Waverly had supplied was a Lockheed Jetstar named _Petrel_ , with its four-engine tail arrangement and the wing-mounted ‘slipper’-style fuel tanks. It wasn’t anywhere as luxurious as Napoleon had expected, but it certainly made up for it by having a miniature armoury and up-to-date surveillance equipment that was possibly MI6-issue. It also had, to Napoleon’s trained eye, at least one hidden compartment, in the form of a false floor. Napoleon liked her already: _Petrel_ was exactly his sort of lady. 

Once they were up in the air, Illya seemed to relax, his posture even losing some of that ramrod straightness. Napoleon looked at him curiously. He hadn’t quite realized exactly _how_ upset Illya had been by his enforced vacation in New York. There was some sort of story behind how anxious Illya was to return to Russia, Napoleon was sure of it. His father, perhaps? Good behaviour? Illya’s CIA file had not been as comprehensive as Napoleon would have liked. Whatever it was, Napoleon knew that Waverly’s and Gaby’s information was likely true: Illya’s handlers were starting to lose control of Illya, and they had known it. 

“Do we get the briefing now, Miss Handler?” Illya drawled, the moment the plane stabilised. 

The magazine didn’t budge. “It’s a ten hour flight to Istanbul.” Gaby pointed out. 

“I would like some time to think about the problem.”

The unimpressed stare that Gaby shot Illya told him precisely what she thought about that. “Very well,” she said briskly, and reached under her seat for a slim black suitcase. From within it she took out two manila folders, passing one each to Illya and Napoleon. Within Napoleon’s was a map of Istanbul, as well as a copy of what was likely a decryption of the Vinciguerra document. 

“The Atlas-A program?” Napoleon inquired.

“First successful American ICBM.” Illya supplied. “Upgraded to Atlas-D. Deployed in California under your 576th Strategic Missile Squadron. Also deployed in Wyoming and Nebraska. Thermonuclear warhead with radio guidance.”

“And that has to do with walking on the moon how?”

“Also possible orbital launch vehicle.” Illya said, eyeing Napoleon with mild irritation. “Surely not difficult concept. You need a lot of energy to move something into space.” 

“Thank you, I didn’t quite need it dumbed down _that_ far.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“And this… Korolyov mentioned?” Napoleon scanned the document in disinterest. Most of it involved scientific terms, deployment strategies and such, all written in densely technical language. 

“Sergey Korolyov,” Gaby elaborated. “Rocket engineer and designer, leader of the Russian Space Program. Colonel in the Red Army. He oversaw the project that launched Gagarin into orbit two years ago.” 

Illya shook his head. “His name should not be here. Nor should you know that.” 

Illya was tense again, Napoleon could tell. Hastily, Napoleon added, “Well, don’t look at us. It’s in the document. And Waverly probably briefed Gaby.” 

“I should talk to my…” Illya trailed off, then shook himself. “This is not good. Russia has feared an American attempt to take Korolyov’s life for years.”

“He’s that key to the space race?” Napoleon asked idly, and got a glare in response. “Honestly, Illya. The fact that you just had to explain even the American situation to me probably tells you how little interest I have in rockets and orbit.” 

“Too big to steal and sell?” Illya drawled, though his heart wasn’t in the jibe, still frowning at the paper. “This talks about a Korolyov Consultation. Strange. But now I am not so surprised that I am ‘on loan’.”

The document also had a latitude and longitude, which translated to a location in Istanbul, marked helpfully with a red cross on the map. “Hotel Seranda,” Napoleon murmured out aloud, and flicked through some surveillance photographs. Blocky looking building. Constructed only a year ago. Ownership records led to a seemingly innocuous shell corporation. Nothing else known. Unremarkable indeed.

“Testing us was a waste of time,” Illya told Gaby. “We should have been taken to Istanbul immediately.”

“Negotiations took time,” Gaby noted, turning a page in her magazine. “Waverly had to convince both your previous handlers not to have you both arrested for treason and such. I hear it was complicated, and Section One wasn’t entirely sure if either of you were worth the trouble.”

“About Victoria Winslow. Is she involved as well?” 

Gaby glanced at Napoleon in genuine puzzlement. “Who?” 

Napoleon quietly chided himself for the question. Gaby was probably a junior operative as well. “No matter. Just someone I thought I recognised.” Waverly had told them to stop following operatives… 

“You meet other spies when you were working with Waverly?” Illya had no such compunction. 

“No, actually.” Gaby grinned at him. “The two of you - other than Waverly - are still the only spies I have ever met. Congratulations?”

“It’s our pleasure,” Napoleon offered, because it never hurt to be charming to a lady, in his experience.

Illya persisted. “But you know that there are others. Many others?”

“I don’t know, and it’s no use asking me about it,” Gaby said primly. “All I know of U.N.C.L.E. was when Waverly showed up one day in my ‘chopshop’ and convinced me to help him. I’ve had some contact with him now and then, but other than that, I know as much about him as you do.”

“He is MI6, I think,” Illya said gruffly. “Maybe ex-Circus. Where is the money coming from?”

“I’m surprised that Waverly didn’t send someone to investigate anyway,” Napoleon told Gaby. “If he’s truly MI6, they tend to err heavily on the side of caution.”

“He did,” Gaby said, after a moment’s pause. “Several days ago the operative went off radio contact. His reports are at the bottom of your folder.” 

Napoleon and Illya flicked to the back. There were a few transcripts of two days’ worth of daily reports: apparently the hotel was an actual operational hotel, if a low cost one, which seemingly ran a fairly healthy skin trade. The last report involved the operative deciding to buy a room for the night. Napoleon turned the page, and studied a blurry black and white photograph: someone had not-quite-enthusiastically tried to hide the evidence with cement, after extensively ensuring that the late U.N.C.L.E. operative was comprehensively dead.

“They wanted him to be found,” Illya concluded, then amended, “Most of him.” 

“Delightful,” Napoleon closed the folder, set it on his lap, and reclined the back of his chair. Illya eyed him with a frown. “Ten hour flight,” Napoleon reminded him. 

“You could study the folder,” Illya suggested. 

“Or I could study the area when we get there.” 

“You are going to stand out like a sore thumb,” Illya muttered. 

“Says the giant.” 

“Do you even speak Turkish?”

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” Illya said challengingly. 

“Well done you,” Napoleon said brightly, and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, even as Illya muttered something again under his breath. Paper rustling indicated that Illya was turning back to the top of the file, to read through it in depth. 

Napoleon was starting to doze off when Gaby said, “I know that you don’t actually dislike him.” 

“Oh?” Illya drawled.

“You saved his life at least twice and didn’t choose to kill him at the end.” 

“Despite what you may think, the KGB does not actually go about committing murder sprees,” Illya told her dryly. “Also, I was told to treat Cowboy as my partner.” 

“He still is your partner.”

“Unfortunately.” 

“There’s no need to be pessimistic about it,” Gaby said, and Napoleon could hear laughter in her voice. “You could learn from him.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“He seems to enjoy life a great deal more than you do.” 

There was a long silence, then Illya said tightly, “We are not having this conversation.”

Gaby wasn’t having any of it, even as Napoleon had to quietly bite down on the inside of his cheeks to stop from grinning. “Has that ever worked for you?” 

“Listen-“

“No, you listen,” Gaby cut in. “The way I see it, Waverly’s giving you both a chance to be free. Just like he did for me. Free from the CIA and whatever deal they struck for Solo… free from the KGB, for you. The world’s a great deal bigger than the Iron Curtain.” 

“And why would I want to be ‘free’ from the KGB?”

“When’s the last time you felt happy? Or at peace?” 

“What are you now, a psychologist?” Illya growled disdainfully. 

“You’re not trapped anymore, Illya.”

“You don’t know me.” There was a finality in Illya’s tone that didn’t brook further discussion, and now, Napoleon slept, with dreams of rocket ships and of a city that had once been the largest in the world.


	4. Chapter 4

b.

They checked in through different names at the Hilton Istanbul Bosphorus, this time with Solo and Gaby posing as an American entrepreneur on a business trip with his wife and Illya checking in separately as a Russian engineer on holiday. Gaby tried not to gawk at the vast, lavish foyer or the richly dressed men and women bustling about: tourists and locals all. Gaby felt a little drab in her comfortable gray dress, bareheaded, and it seemed for a dizzying moment as though she had been transported to Paris, or some other centre of European fashion.

“Only the best for you, darling,” Solo said, with his sly and charming grin as he booked a suite, and Gaby managed to force a smile back at him as she subtly tightened her grip on his arm.

“Careful, _darling_. We still want to see the sights, don’t we?” 

“Oh, I’m sure we can knock a few coins left together for you to shop as much as you like.” Solo winked at the concierge, a harried-looking Frenchman who assured Madame that there was, indeed, a great deal of shopping to be had, and might he interest them both in booking various restaurants or other entertainments? Gaby tuned him out as Solo extricated them, and they made their way to the lifts with relief. 

“White Portland cement,” Solo murmured to her, as a bell boy selected their floor. “Glass and steel from Germany, marble and ceramic from Italy, air conditioning units and these elevators from home.” 

“No expense spared?” 

“Naturally. It was, it seemed, a point of pride between us and the Ruskies.” Solo was perhaps putting on rather _too_ much of a drawl for appearances’ sake, and to Gaby’s critical eye, he did seem to be having rather more fun than he should be. “After you.”

“Is there something I should know?” Gaby asked, once they were alone in the lift. “You seem to be in a good mood.” 

“My first mission in years without Sanders and his hovering. Smells like freedom.” 

Gaby couldn’t help but grin in the face of Solo’s pleasure. “I might hover even more obnoxiously, for all you know.”

“Ah, my dear, the difference is, _you_ could never be obnoxious,” Solo said, with a grand flourish and an archly playful wink that made her laugh. 

“You’re every mother’s worst nightmare, Solo.” 

Solo shook his head sadly. “What a hurtful thing to say to a friend.”

“But true,” Gaby slipped her hand into the offered crook of Solo’s arm as the lift reached their floor. 

“But true,” Solo conceded, as they stepped out into plush maroon carpeting. Like the foyer, exquisite works of art and marble trimmings adorned the corridor, with ornate doors and gold-plated numbers marking each suite. Solo led Gaby over to theirs - a corner room, close to the fire escape, and then paused, to her surprise, before entering. “Notice the importance of this room, Gaby?”

“No…” Gaby began, then she peered at the door, and back down the corridor. “It’s a corner room?”

“And?”

“And…” Gaby cast about helplessly for a moment. “Next to the fire escape? Or?” 

“It might save your life one day,” Solo noted. “Always try to get a room - safehouse, apartment, hotel room, whatever it is - which is close to at least one alternative exit.” When Gaby stared at him in surprise, Solo added dryly, “If you do insist on remaining in your current profession then at least go into it with both your eyes open.”

“Funny,” Gaby said, with a faint grin, as she took the key for the suite from her purse, “I thought that you were going to lecture me about my true position in life.”

“What for?” Solo raised his eyebrows. “You are your own woman. And besides, I’ve met a number of ferociously successful women in the Game.” 

“More successful than you?” Gaby teased, as she opened the door, letting them into the suite. 

“Of course.” Solo pretended make a bee line for the alcohol cabinet, but Gaby noticed how his eyes flicked around the room, always alert. 

“Femme fatales?” 

Solo sighed, even as he selected a scotch. “The best players are actually the people who don’t look like players. And before you ask, learning to use a gun is actually fairly optional. Scotch?”

“No thanks.” Gaby draped herself luxuriously over a beautiful, antique armchair, running her fingers over the stitched patterns on the fabric. The hotel had already brought their luggage up, leaving it neatly against the wall, under a painting of the Mediterranean sea. “I would still like to learn how to.”

“It’s a matter of practice and confidence - and the right tools,” Solo settled down on the divan comfortably, and waved his drink at her purse. “For example, that little ladies’ derringer in your purse is useless. You’ll have to fire at close range - preferably almost point blank at centre mass - and probably empty it in your victim’s chest to make a real impression.” 

Out of habit, Gaby opened her purse to look guiltily at the little silver gun she had purchased impulsively just before the flight, and looked up again with a sigh. “Give it back.” 

“I’m not going to,” Solo said blandly. “The plane that Waverly supplied has a fair number of actually _useful_ guns. You will just need to buy a bigger purse. If you want to carry a weapon, then it should at least be a _useful_ weapon. But it might be better for you to carry a knife.” 

“Woman’s weapon?”

“Not in the least.” Solo briefly pulled up his trouser leg, revealing a knife strapped to his leg, near his ankle. “It just happens to have rather more function. Guns are noisy and are of limited use. Knives are quiet and have a great deal of utility.”

“Jimmying open a window,” Gaby suggested. Solo grinned at her.

“Why, Miss Teller. I’m shocked.” 

“So what now?” Gaby asked, as Solo sipped his drink. “We collect Illya and… check out Hotel Seranda?” 

“I suspect that Illya and I are first going to spend the rest of today catching up with some friends.” At Gaby’s raised eyebrow, Solo elaborated, “Contacts.” 

“Oh. Of course.”

“And no doubt Waverly left you with a few helpful contacts of your own?” At Gaby’s nod, Solo gestured at the phone with his glass. “There you go.” 

“It just seems rather… passive,” Gaby said helplessly. 

“Not at all. Information is key in this line of work. And you’re here as a handler, not as a field agent,” Solo pointed out. “You’re a falconer. You might be the one who chooses the target, but Illya and I don’t need babysitting. So think of it all as a learning experience. Go shopping. See the sights. Collect information.” 

Gaby frowned at Solo, wondering whether he was making fun of her. “Maybe I will go shopping. To get a bigger purse.”

Solo merely inclined his head. “Do what you like.” He checked his watch. “I’m due elsewhere. I’ll see you… hm… probably in the morning for breakfast.” 

“In the morning,” Gaby echoed, a little mulishly, feeling left out, and then blushed a little as Solo raised his eyebrows at her. 

“In the meantime,” Solo added, as he deposited his glass back at the cabinet, “Here’s a fun little exercise for you that’ll be of more use to you than shopping for a better purse. How many Frenchmen were there in the foyer of this hotel?”

“Why…” Gaby hesitated in confusion. “There was the concierge, and… and… why?” 

“There were four,” Solo said, with a quirk to his mouth. "The concierge, yes. There was a dandy with his lady friend on a divan, likely old money. A reporter by the door, probably waiting to interview someone. And a tourist, middle-aged, independently wealthy, two rows beside us.”

“Is there something wrong with them?” Gaby blinked. “Waverly didn’t say anything about the French…“ 

“I could have just as easily asked you how many women there were, or how many bodyguards, how many Turks,” Solo noted. “ It’s a good exercise to practice now and then. Keeping your eyes and ears open is key to our work, whether you want to be a handler or an agent.”

“Or a thief?” Gaby inquired, amused. “I may not have noticed the Frenchmen, but I certainly saw you take something from a gentleman’s coat while we were heading to the concierge.” A sprained finger clearly hadn’t affected Solo’s dexterity noticeably. Or his thieving ways. 

“Ah,” Solo winked, not in the least ashamed, and as though by magic, a slim wallet appeared in his fingers, then disappeared back in his coat. “I’m going to need a bit of spending money where I’m going tonight, and I didn’t quite feel like taking a loan from the Bank of Waverly - at least, not for trifles.”

“Should I be worried?” Gaby asked, with mock concern. 

“Gaby,” Solo said, so very seriously, “You will never need to be worried about me.”

“… Liar.”

iii.

Illya hadn’t liked the reverse arrangement of Gaby having to play pretend with Solo, but he had grudgingly conceded the point. A single woman would attract attention, and an American businessman’s wife was going to have far more latitude for movement - and not have to concoct awkward first-meeting explanations. Americans were everywhere. Like a bad rash. And besides. Illya was fairly sure that he could trust Solo not to try anything. Maybe.

Indecision meant that Illya ended up loitering around the foyer until he noticed Solo leaving, late in the evening and alone, dressed up in a charcoal pinstripe suit and holding a suitcase, as if heading out to a meeting. Satisfied, Illya waited until Solo had cleared the building before folding his newspaper, getting up and strolling unhurriedly out of the hotel. Traffic in the streets was sparse, and few looked up at him even as he walked by, especially with the Hilton still looming large behind Illya: foreigners were plentiful. Istanbul’s booming tourism trade was good for spy work. 

The KGB had maintained a clandestine contact in Istanbul that had ballooned slightly during the somewhat ridiculous hotel race that had culminated in the blocky, ugly expression of American extravagance and taste that Illya had just left. It was a healthy size for a bureau, given how large Istanbul was as a city, but given the Turkish alignment with NATO and the Truman Doctrine, the KGB had been playing a game of cat and mouse with the MAH for years, financed by the CIA. Illya was going to have to be careful, and watch his back. 

There was also the problem of Korolyov. Illya had carefully read the manila folder’s contents several times during the flight, and had not been much the wiser. The Project Gemini material had most certainly been referring to the stolen NASA papers, with an unsurprising focus on the viability of the Atlas-D thermonuclear device. But it looked like an excerpt of some sort of general scientific opinion than anything truly sinister. 

What Illya had been curious about was the mentioned addendum in the opinion, with regards to the ‘Korolyov Consultation’. As far as Illya knew, Korolyov was being kept in secrecy and seclusion for his own safety, and would never have had the chance to consult with the Vinciguerra over anything. Or perhaps he was seeing shadows where there were none. Korolyov had not been able to publish any papers recently, but the ‘Consultation’ might be referring to his 1934 work-

He was a block away when an all too annoyingly familiar voice said, around the corner, “We really do have to stop meeting like this.” 

Illya scowled. In the dim light from the shophouse they were standing next to, Solo’s playful grin looked like a death’s mask, his eyes half-shaded. The American thief looked relaxed, with one hand hitched in a pocket, the other loose against the handle of his briefcase, but Illya wasn’t fooled in the least. Solo had proved several times over that he was just as dangerous relaxed as he was on the prowl. 

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

Solo’s grin widened. “I _am_ working. Aren’t you?”

“So am I.” The conversation, Illya noted with resignation, was swiftly turning nonsensical and circular, a recurring theme with many conversations involving Solo, it seemed. The man was infuriating at the best of times. “Settled in?”

“Oh yes. Did my rounds of the premises as well, just to be safe. Although I had to remove a little something from our mutual friend.” Solo turned up his palm towards the light, and within it Illya could see a tiny derringer for a moment before Solo pocketed it again.

“Useless weapon. Unless fired point blank. She needs better gun.” Illya paused. “And bigger purse.” Solo chuckled, as though amused at a private joke. “What?”

“I could actually use your help tonight.”

“Help how?” Illya asked suspiciously. “As in, the ‘help’ you wanted in that train yard? Or the ‘help’ you provided when you set off that alarm in the vault?”

“Surely that’s all past history now. And there were extenuating circumstances involved each time-“

“No.” 

“Why, I’m starting to think that you don’t trust me, Peril.”

Illya rolled his eyes, and started to walk briskly down the street, shoulders hunched, head bent, clearly advertising his wish to be left alone. Oblivious, Solo kept pace, though he had to almost jog to do it against Illya’s longer stride. “I haven’t been in Istanbul for a while, and getting to see this particular contact without company is a little tricky. While your little bird just lives ten minutes’ walk from here, and will talk whether you show your face now or early in the morning.” 

“You…” Illya began, then swallowed his words, making a mental note to inform the KGB that their Istanbul bureau had been compromised. Bloody Americans. Gritting his teeth, and reasoning that any information was probably good information, Illya asked tightly, “Expecting trouble?”

“Always. But it’s not that kind of trouble. If all goes well, we’ll be in and out of this place with no bloodshed at all.” 

Illya frowned at Solo’s inscrutable grin, trying to keep a hold on his temper. The jackal was laughing, and if it was laughing - “Is this a friend from your current life or your previous one?”

“Previous one,” Solo admitted easily, and even as Illya sucked in an irritated breath and quickened his step, he added, hurrying to keep up, “Peril, look at things logically. We’re here to find something that was stolen, aren’t we? And what better way to do that than talk to the best fence this side of Europe? We need to find out who brought this in, and where, and who has it now. Your little bird can’t tell you that. Nor can the friends from my ‘new life’.” 

“Why would a thief need help talking to a fence?” 

“I’ve been out of the loop for a while, people in my ‘previous’ line of work tend to be the nervous sort, and I think word about my new leash must have gotten around here and there,” Solo pointed out. “I _could_ try to do this without your help, but it’s going to involve a bit of messy sleight of hand, particularly since I haven’t been in this part of the world for years. And then you might have to end up wasting time extricating me. Again.”

True.

“You,” Illya said dryly, “No shame.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Fine,” Illya conceded ungracefully. “I will… _help_.”

“Excellent!”

“For someone who likes to work alone, you seem to need a… lot… of help.” 

Solo actually sighed. “This isn’t the main course, just an appetiser. I’m not beyond using help here and there. Remember my getaway across the wall? Did you think I was driving that truck via telepathy?”

“How could I forget?” Illya glowered at him. “Since you so kindly dropped me in a minefield?”

“You seem to have gotten out of it just fine, I don’t see what the problem is.”

Reflecting that punching Solo in the street would probably only lead to problems that Illya didn’t need right now, Illya exhaled and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just do this quickly.” 

Five minutes and a stolen car later, Illya stopped trying to surreptitiously squirm enough to give himself comfortable leg room and just glowered out of the window, knees nearly brushing the dash. Solo had chosen an unremarkable car off the street, but the car made up for its useful nondescript appearance by being far too small and given to alarming sputters, creaking in reproach whenever they went over the smallest pothole. 

They were going deeper and deeper into the city, the districts looking increasingly more disreputable. Out here, there were no tourists. The car would pass, Illya could also probably pass, with his hat and unremarkable clothes, but Solo looked every inch a rich foreigner, which was going to be trouble. 

Thankfully, when they finally pulled up, it was in a darkened side street. Expecting Solo to change into something less visible, Illya frowned instead as Solo simply got out of the car, briefcase and all, with a flippant, “Shall we?”

“Forgetting something?” Illya asked pointedly, though he also got out of the car and closed the door quietly. 

“Hmm… No. I don’t think so.” Solo said, with one of his quick, sharp grins. The alley stank of refuse and the rank scent of stale urine, and Illya tried not to breathe in too deeply, and decided not to argue. The faster this got done, the faster he could get out of Solo’s immediate vicinity.

“So what is this help that you need?” Maybe Solo just needed a lookout, or someone to cover him. That would make sense. Illya glanced around, up at the flat rooftops around them. He didn’t have a proper scope or a rifle on hand, unless Solo had a collapsible one in his briefcase, which meant that he was going to have to improvise-

“You’re going to be my plus-one to a very exclusive establishment,” Solo said, and winked suggestively. 

Illya puzzled this over, and after a long, bemused pause, said, very carefully, “What.”


	5. Chapter 5

IV.

The fact that Illya did not instantly try to kill Napoleon told Napoleon two things: that a) the ‘Korolyev Consultation’ was worrying Illya far more than he had showed to date and b) the KGB had a rather more varied breadth of missions for a bad-tempered blonde giant than perhaps Napoleon had even originally imagined.

“You are absolutely certain that this fence will have good information.” Illya said tightly instead. 

“As I told you, I haven’t been in this country for years-“ Napoleon cut himself off when Illya narrowed his eyes. “ _Years ago_ , yes, I would be absolutely certain.” 

“Fine,” Illya said sourly then, to Napoleon’s pleasant surprise, instead of arguing further. “What do you want me to do?” 

“We are going to a club for-“ 

“Yes, I understood that much,” Illya interrupted impatiently. “Men who like men, no? It is not illegal in Turkey. But would it not be easier for you to go by yourself rather than with a ‘partner’?” 

“Not this place - at least, not for strangers. Yes, sometimes it is a club. Sometimes it is a theatre. Sometimes it is a cabaret.” 

Illya’s mind was quick, Napoleon would give him that. “It is a place for men who like men to pretend that the world does not hate them.” Illya looked away, at the street, and Napoleon studied him curiously, surprised at Illya’s sudden show of empathy. Surely Illya was not - for Napoleon had seen how he had acted around Gaby - or perhaps here was another person who, like Napoleon, saw no real distinction between genders. Or- “So? Are we going to keep standing here? I do not like this alley.”

“Firstly, your hat.”

“What about my hat?”

“Take it off please.” 

Illya hesitated, clearly reluctant, but he took the hat off and tucked it into his coat, or tried to - Napoleon took it off his hands and put it in the car. Then he unzipped Illya’s jacket, conscious all the while of the gathering tension he could sense under his hand, and finally, despite Illya glaring daggers, Napoleon teased a few strands of golden hair out over his forehead. Pity about the vaguely thuggish turtleneck, but it couldn’t be helped - asking Illya to come along had been an impulse born of curiosity and sheer mischief, after all.

“Try to restrain yourself from killing me tonight,” Napoleon told him cheerfully, openly admiring his handiwork. Even in their dim surroundings, the startling blue of Illya’s eyes were no longer hidden by that ridiculous cap. 

“I am trying very hard,” Illya grit out, and followed Napoleon with clear reluctance deeper into the alley. 

They emerged out onto a quiet side street with relief, and although Illya kept at his side, Napoleon was briefly wondering if this had indeed been a good idea after all. Illya would do perfectly for backup, if things went south, but Napoleon wasn’t sure if they were even going to get admitted, if Illya kept up his sullen silence. Right now, they would not even pass as friends, let alone clandestine lovers. 

Once Napoleon stopped at a high, wooden gate, however, Illya abruptly stepped closer, and when Napoleon glanced at him, instinctively alert, Illya raised an eyebrow for a moment, and then a… _change_ curled through him. Gone was the wolf with its chin held high, with the angry eyes and the teeth bared against the world; in its place was a tall man hunching down a little to seem smaller, hands tucked with seeming awkwardness into his trouser pockets, a little nervousness in the chewed lip, every inch a younger man out with an older companion. 

Napoleon would have laughed in delight at the effortless transformation if he wasn’t sure that Illya would most certainly hurt him for it, agreement or not, and instead, he rapped at the gate lightly, and waited. There was a muffled step behind the gate, though there was silence, for a long moment. They were being scrutinised.

Finally, there a gruff voice asked, in Turkish, “Who are you to stand before the house of Mehmed?” 

“To spill some wine,” Napoleon replied, likely in very bad Turkish - he was rusty. 

“Pass, friend,” the voice said, switching to Romani, and the gate opened, showing a small, rocky garden with small shrubs and no one beyond, and a heavy curtain draped over a door. Napoleon caught Illya’s wrist before he could move. 

“We are not friends but all strangers,” Napoleon responded, in what was likely even worse Romani, given how Illya’s mouth twitched as though biting down on a smirk. 

There was a longer pause, then a thankfully familiar face emerged from behind the gate. Radu grinned broadly to see them, though Napoleon wasn’t fooled: under that heavy jacket was quite likely at least two pistols and several daggers. “Mister Solo. It’s been years!” 

“Radu,” Napoleon tugged lightly, and Illya followed him through the gate, tensing only slightly as Radu’s men, hidden against the wall, closed it behind them. Napoleon pretended to ignore them, instead striding over to shake hands warmly with the swarthy, tall Turk. “Time has been good to you.”

“Better to you,” Radu retorted, openly looking them both over. There was silver at Radu’s temples, dusting his short-cropped hair, and his hooked nose dominated his thin face; still, there was something of friendliness to his smile, Napoleon decided. “Come in. Come in. Who is your friend?” 

“I found this pretty catch at the Hilton, believe it or not,” Napoleon said, with a lazy smirk, curling a hand around Illya’s narrow waist and resting it possessively on the small of his back. Illya stiffened up, but made up for the slip by shooting Napoleon a wide-eyed look that could have passed for shy, if one overlooked the tense set to Illya’s jaw. The KGB had trained Illya well, but not perfectly. 

“You and your pretty golden boys. _Always_ with the golden boys,” Radu shook his head slowly, amused, as they walked into what looked like a storage room, Radu pushed a crate away, and pulled up a trapdoor that led downwards in a narrow flight of stairs. “Well. Enjoy yourselves.” 

“I always do,” Napoleon said blandly, and palmed Radu a thick wad of stolen cash, which disappeared quickly into Radu’s jacket. Radu didn’t even blink. 

“Kara will be happy to see you again,” Radu said, with a little wave, and Napoleon nodded as he led Illya down the steps. Today the House was a jazz club, a four piece blues band. The crowd was sparse, from what Napoleon could tell in the darkened, large basement, and when he settled with Illya into a corner alcove, a slim, masked waiter sidled up instantly to them. Napoleon ordered them both a glass of red, and settled down on the leather couch to study his reluctant companion. 

Illya was watching the band with open interest, clearly rapt, instead of trying to peer at the other couples in the room, which was curious, to say the least. “Didn’t figure you for a music lover,” Napoleon murmured, leaning close, and Illya didn’t jerk back, instead bowing his head, as though suddenly shy. 

His tone, however, although quiet, was as curt as ever. “You don’t know me. Where is your fence?”

“Give it time.” 

“I swear, if you are wasting _my_ time-“

“Surely this would be a rather elaborate way of doing so, what with pass phrases and all. Relax.” 

“Your Romani is very bad,” Illya whispered, though he did lean into the couch, and didn’t even tense up when Napoleon splayed a hand on his knee. That was probably going to be enough for appearances. 

The house red arrived - a little tart, but a fair vintage - and Illya hesitated, though he did know the right way to hold a glass. “If you want to change your poison…” Napoleon noted.

“No… no matter.” Illya sipped, pulled a little face at it, surprisingly boyish, then sipped again. “How long do we wait?”

“As long as we have to. Relax. You’re starting to make _me_ nervous.”

Two songs and one glass down, Napoleon suddenly understood Illya’s reserve at drinking the wine, and why Illya had poured out some of the scotch in his glass on the balcony, when they were celebrating the seemingly incipient destruction of their careers. Illya was now a little flushed, cheeks warming up, and although his body was looser now, he had just developed a decidedly _distracting_ habit of catching his lower lip in his teeth, over and over. Avarice started to warm Napoleon’s gut, and he carefully swallowed what would have been an admittedly lascivious grin. 

“Another glass?”

“You are the devil,” Illya whispered, narrowing his eyes. 

“I know, _darling_.” Napoleon drawled archly. His ears picked up a faint gasp, from across the room, over the slow richness of the music, and Illya did too, turning his head briefly in that direction. 

“Have you ever…” Illya hesitated, staring down at Napoleon’s palm, “With a man?” He sounded genuinely curious, even a little nervous, and avarice wound its grip a little tighter.

“Of course.”

“Was it strange?”

“Not in the least.” 

“I’ve thought about it,” Illya admitted, then he frowned to himself, and then deliberately set his glass down on the couch beside him. “The devil,” he mumbled.

“What about Gaby?”

“What about her?”

“The two of you seemed to be getting along so well.” 

Illya frowned at him reproachfully. “She,” Illya began, then sucked in a slow breath, and Napoleon straightened up as Illya hooked fingers into his tie, tugging it out from under his jacket. “Do you really want to talk about her right now?” Illya whispered, this time right against Napoleon’s ear, hot and harsh. 

“If this is what wine does to you, Peril,” Napoleon said dryly, “Then you probably shouldn’t have had that glass.” He wasn’t above turning, though, to brush a playful, mocking kiss against Illya’s cheek.

Illya jerked back, eyes flashing, and even as Napoleon smirked at him, about to remind him that Illya had a cover to play, Illya bared his teeth, a white line in the gloom, like the jaws of a wolf, and hauled Napoleon with his impossible strength up against him, hands clenched in his lapels. The kiss was bruisingly, painfully hard, more like a bite than anything remotely tender, and Napoleon scrabbled blindly at Illya’s shoulders for a moment, startled, before Illya twitched back, with a sharp breath, wide-eyed again. 

Napoleon gave no quarter: he twisted closer, taking a kiss that better suited his tastes, open-mouthed and uncompromisingly salacious, hands straying, daring teeth. Against him, Illya was all lean, hard muscle, his strength effortlessly obvious, as his big hands curled warningly over Napoleon’s arms, then shifted awkwardly and restlessly up towards his shoulders, as though blindly yearning for tenderness. Illya could pin him still and hold him down and Napoleon would just have to take it-

A throat was cleared politely behind him, and Napoleon bit down on a sigh, even as Illya froze. Turning, Napoleon glanced up at the masked waiter, who was extending, with some embarrassment, a card on a silver tray. As Napoleon took it, the waiter turned on his heel and left quickly.

Napoleon was still half-sprawled over Illya’s lap, but he ignored Illya’s increasingly unsubtle attempts to push him off, turning the card over in his hands. One side was white, the other, black. 

Play time was over, sadly. “Now we meet the fence,” Napoleon murmured. “Try to behave yourself.” 

“First,” Illya growled into his ear, hot and unevenly guttural, sending another frisson of warmth through Napoleon’s blood, “You give me back my watch.”

iv.

It was a struggle keeping up the charade as Solo led him past the low stage and through a set of heavy curtains into yet another corridor, if better lit this time. Illya tried to consign the last ten minutes of his life to the past: Solo certainly seemed to have blithely turned all business again. A spot of jackal-touched wine madness, perhaps. Nothing to speak of again. So thinking, Illya followed Solo quietly as the black and white card got them past two sets of guards and through what was clearly a murder room, before they finally stepped through into a suite that would not have looked out of place within the Hilton Istanbul.

Illya blinked, disoriented, at the slavishly American opulence of the chambers, at the thick carpet, the gilt-framed portraits on the walls, the marble slab of a table that dominated the room, and belatedly glanced at the woman striding over to meet them. Tall, with bronzed skin, rich black curls that spilled over her bared shoulders, and dark, almond-shaped eyes, she looked like a mix of varying nationalities, and seemed of indeterminate age, voluptuous in a red silk gown that rode high over her long, sleek legs. She was disorientingly beautiful, and she smiled like a cat as Solo bent to playfully kiss an offered wrist. 

“Napoleon, my dear.” The woman spoke with a rich, Turkish accent. “It has been so long.”

“Kara, my sweet,” Solo grinned at her. “I’ve missed you so.”

“And who is this?” Kara looked Illya brazenly up and down. “Dear Napoleon, your taste, as always, is impeccable. Do tell me that you’ll let me borrow this devastatingly handsome boy for a week.”

“No, Kara,” Solo said dryly, though Illya blushed a little, then scolded himself silently for blushing. “Unfortunately, I actually need him.”

Kara pouted. “A day? Surely a day. Don’t be selfish.” 

“Sadly, this isn’t a social visit, my dear. Kara, this is Illya Kuryakin. A colleague of mine, shall we say.”

Kara’s eyes narrowed, and Illya carefully remained relaxed. They seemed alone in the chamber, but Illya was certain that they weren’t. “Oh, darling,” Kara sighed, “I was so hoping that you had finally slipped your leash. You were one of the very best of my… suppliers.”

“I did slip the leash,” Solo said, with a grin, “But unfortunately, it means a favour has to be paid. I need a little information.” 

Kara set her fists on her hips. “You know that I don’t just give that away. What do you take me for?” 

“Let’s say that I will owe you a very big favour,” Solo said, and the jackal smiled. 

Illya almost expected Kara to laugh in Solo’s face, but instead, she pursed her lips, hesitating. “Any favour?”

“Well, within my capabilities, of course.” Solo also offered the suitcase. “And an advance.” 

“A favour from Napoleon Solo,” Kara mused, and then she sauntered over, and hooked her fingers into Solo’s offered arm, and took the suitcase from him. 

“For old time’s sake.”

“A favour is very tempting. And,” Kara decided, with a sigh, “I suppose I _am_ still rather fond of you, you scoundrel. What do you want to know? Come. Sit with me. We will have wine.”

Illya politely refused a second glass, but he followed them to a lavish spill of patterned cushions, sitting straight-backed on one and feeling awkward as he did so. Solo, naturally, simply lounged like a cat, with Kara at his side, not in the least embarrassed or out of sorts. 

“It has come to our attention that a certain set of rocket plans might have been… reacquired. Some names came up in relation to the plans. Vinciguerra. Seranda.”

“I may be aware of such a transaction at the Seranda.” Kara pursed her lips. “It is already over. You are too late to bid.”

“Bid?” Illya asked, but Solo gave him a warning glance, and he subsided. 

“The Vinciguerra won, I presume.” 

“Why, no.” 

Illya blinked, but Solo merely cocked his head. “Oh?”

“There’s a new player in the market for… reacquired items of such a nature,” Kara said. “Bidding very, very top dollar. They are also… very, very dangerous.”

“ _I’m_ very, very dangerous,” Solo told Kara playfully.

“You? Napoleon, my dear, you are a magpie at best, and a very good one, with some claws. But the buyer of your plans is a tiger,” Kara said quietly, abruptly serious all of a sudden. “And you should not nose your way into its business.” 

“What else have they ‘reacquired’?” Illya asked, trying to keep patient. 

Solo sighed, but Kara answered, “Some… interesting live resources. One might even think,” she said slyly, “That someone is trying to beat both your countries to the Moon.”

Live… thermonuclear devices? Illya’s heart sank. Even if it was the Atlas-D, it was still a threat enough to scare any country. “I didn’t know that you traded in large property,” Solo was telling Kara.

“I don’t. You know what I trade in.” Kara shrugged. “But I keep my ear to the ground and my eyes open.”

“But the plans,” Solo said mildly. “You handled those, surely. If it had to go to auction, who else could our people trust?”

Kara laughed. “Flatterer,” she said, amused, and swatted Solo on the shoulders. “Go on. Get out of here. I’ve said enough and you owe me a favour.” 

Solo made a show of reluctance, getting up, and Illya got to his feet, mind whirling, heading towards the door, though he hesitated as he heard Solo add, playfully, “I’m going to need some life insurance, I think.”

“Full cover? That’ll add up, Napoleon.”

“The works.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

Illya turned, but Solo and Kara were already heading towards him. Kara looked him over again, more slowly this time, and sighed theatrically. “Are you sure that you can’t lend him to me?”

“He’s not a lamb, he’s a wolf.” Solo said blandly. “He bites.”

“All the better,” Kara said, and laughed as Illya reddened a little again.

Outside, the dark street seemed even more still and quiet, even as Solo started to head back down the road, towards the car. 

“What was in that suitcase?” Illya asked stiffly. 

“A few tokens of my affection, reacquired from here and there.” 

Solo _had_ taken some time to reappear in the lobby. “This was a waste of time. We learned nothing.” 

“On the contrary, we learned that a transaction did take place, that the Vinciguerra are not in possession of what we need, and that there’s bigger fish in the sea.” 

“In other words,” Illya said sourly, “Nothing. We don’t know where the plans went. Or to who.”

“Only if you weren’t listening.” Solo said nothing else until they were back in the car and driving, at which point he tossed a card into Illya’s hands as he made a turn out onto a main street. 

It was a small white card, with a black and white drawing etched onto it with a fine-tipped pen. “Kara passed me this while you were busy staring at her legs.” 

“I wasn’t…!” Illya took in a deep breath, and studied the drawing. He turned the card over, but it was otherwise blank. “It’s… a little bird? A robin… a thrush? What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Solo said pensively, all playfulness briefly sucked away. “But whatever it is, it scares Kara. And I’ve never known her to be frightened of anything until now.”


	6. Chapter 6

c.

Gaby woke up to an insistent, electronic whine, groaned, and rolled over in bed, pulling a pillow over her eyes. Somewhere in the lush bedroom, she heard Solo laugh. “Rise and shine, ‘Mrs Crane’.”

“What the hell is that sound?” Gaby moaned, never particularly one for mornings, and tightened her grip on the pillow.

“I’m checking for listening devices and other nasty little things.”

Gaby cautiously lifted her head, and noticed Solo running a little brick-like thing around the walk-in wardrobe. The device was emitting the annoying whining sound. “Why? Did something happen?”

“Habit,” Solo said absently, disappearing out of the room, the whine tracking out with him as he went. Gaby stared glumly at the open windows, yawned, glared at the pale morning sunlight for a long moment, and when it failed to fade, she sighed, hauled herself out of bed, and stalked off to clean up.

By the time she was dressed, she found Solo blithely arranging crockery and cutlery in the dining chamber. A breakfast spread had been prepared: eggs, toast, pastries and other delicacies that Gaby could not immediately identify, as well as coffee and tea. “You’re fast,” Gaby said blankly, for a moment, before she realized what Solo must have done. Room service.

“I confess that I cheated,” Solo said urbanely, pulling out a chair for her, “And rang for help. You didn’t seem quite up to facing the public as yet.”

Gaby sank down gratefully into the chair, and Solo seated himself opposite her, helping himself to eggs. She had a jam pastry and was halfway down her first cup of coffee before she finally felt human enough again to ask, “What time did you get back last night? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Late enough that it would have been terribly rude waking you up,” Solo agreed. He was having tea instead of coffee, and was on his second helping of eggs. 

“Productive night?”

“You could say that. What about you?” 

“The U.N.C.L.E. contact in Istanbul’s been observing the Hotel Seranda. Apparently it’s a cheap hotel, of a string of cheap hotels owned by the Turdus Corporation, which specialises in running such… establishments. There hasn’t been anything out of the ordinary for weeks.” 

“Hm,” Solo took a sip of his cup. “The contact is either incompetent or he’s been bought. We’re going to have to find out which. If it’s the latter, we’re going to have to be careful.” 

Gaby narrowed her eyes. “What did you find out?” 

“Next time you talk to Waverly, ask him about this.” Solo handed a small white card across the breakfast spread. It was a little drawing of a bird, quite neatly and expertly done.

“A bird?” 

“A thrush.” Solo corrected. “Of the genus _Turdus_ , I do believe.” He smiled faintly. “One of my friends kindly informed me that a new player at the game outbid our old friends the Vinciguerra for the NASA plans.”

“So it was the Turdus Corporation.”

“Apparently so.” 

“Not convinced?”

“It’s dangerous to assume. Think of the variations. One, that it might be a coincidence - though I grant you this is unlikely. Two, perhaps my friend is not quite as friendly as she should be, and is trying to throw us off the track. Three, that Turdus and the card are but one part of some other clue.” 

“… So, what next?” 

“You should probably try and unearth Illya out of wherever he is and find out what he’s learned from _his_ friend.” Solo suggested. “Though I think that if he does have anything truly important to tell you, he’ll find you easily enough.”

“So… I sit here and do nothing?”

“Not in the least. That would be suspicious. You are a rich American businessman’s wife. Keep up the charade. Remember, you’re meant to be playing a part at all times. Up until you’re back in New York, don’t let your guard down.”

Gaby drank another mouthful of coffee, her appetite cooling along with her drink. “And you’ll be… going to investigate the contact? I don’t even know where he might be.”

“You said that he or she keeps an eye on the Seranda. That’s good enough for me.” Solo said indifferently. “Don’t worry. I’ve told you that neither Illya nor I need babysitting.”

“But I do, is that what the two of you think?”

“ _I_ don’t believe so. You’re a grown woman.” Solo finished his tea, tipping up the cup. “Oh yes. My friend also indicated that certain ‘live resources’ were also acquired by the bidder at the same time.”

“ _Another_ bomb?” Gaby groaned. “Why are there so many of the damned things floating around, waiting for bad people to get their hands on them?”

Solo laughed. “Dear Gaby. Where devices like that are concerned, _everyone_ is bad. War is monstrous and cruel and that is the beginning and the end of such things.” 

“But you Americans…” 

“‘We’ Americans? Don’t be fooled by the propaganda,” Solo said wryly. “I’ve seen enough of what ‘we Americans’ have done in the name of our global ambition to last me a lifetime. Give me a life of thievery anytime, by God. At least the mayhem in _that_ is honest in comparison.”

For all that Solo smiled pleasantly at her as he said it, Gaby could sense and edge under it all, perhaps bitterness, perhaps jaded cynicism. She stared at him, wide-eyed, but Solo was already rising from the table, adjusting his vest, the straps of his shoulder holster pulling at his crisp white shirt. 

“If we assume nothing,” Gaby felt awkward for changing the subject so heavy-handedly, “Then we cannot assume that it is a bomb. Maybe it is only part of a bomb. Maybe it is this new uranium, the thing that is easy to make. That my father was making.” Always, the sins of the father. 

“Possible,” Solo allowed encouragingly. “Or it might not be a device at all. It might be some other machine, or a set of codes, anything.”

“Your friend was not so forthcoming.” 

“She was afraid,” Solo said soberly. “But yes. I'll be calling on some of my other ‘friends’, here and there.”

“CIA contacts?”

“If I have to. But first, I should see if our little nest here has been compromised. In the meantime,” Solo added mildly, “I would suggest that you spend the rest of your day somewhere public. Cafes, perhaps, or in the street, somewhere with many people who will intervene if a young lady has need of help. If you enter a room, study the exits, sit with your back to a wall and within sight of all the exits if you can, or at least two if you can’t.” 

“Your life seems to be one of professional paranoia.”

“I prefer to call it being professionally prepared to be disappointed with life at any time,” Solo corrected, with a quick and roguish grin. 

“If I want to buy a new purse, how big should it be?” Gaby inquired, with a sharp smile of her own. 

To her surprise, Solo drew his pistol from his shoulder holster, a sleek, small black gun. “Walther PPK, semi-automatic, made in Germany, short grip, small magazine, but light and easy to hide. Slide mounted thumb safety, released like so, keep it always in the ‘down’ position with the muzzle pointed at the floor, unless you’re actually about to shoot someone.” Solo decocked the gun and extended it towards Gaby with a playful flourish, grip first. “It’s loaded, so be careful.”

“But-“

“I took it from Waverly’s plane, this one and the spare.” Solo set the pistol down on the table beside Gaby’s plate when she made no move to take it from him. “Feel free to use this one as a gauge.” 

“Thanks, but I…” Gaby trailed off, awkward all over again, then, with a burst of irritation at herself, she picked up the ugly thing. 

It was a little warm, and surprisingly light, and she felt a rush of wrongness as she held it clumsily, almost afraid that it might go off with no warning. Placing it back down on the table, Gaby expected to see some sort of sly amusement on Solo’s face, perhaps, or condescension, but he wasn’t even paying attention, adjusting his cuffs as he wandered off towards the bedroom, probably to arm himself with the other Walther. 

Returning fully dressed, jacket and all, Solo tipped an imaginary hat at Gaby, and left as she waved at him. Once she was alone, Gaby stared at the gun again, then grit her teeth, stood up, and picked it up. She took a deep breath, pushed the plates aside, and turned the gun over in her hands, studying its stainless steel frame. 

Then, if with some clumsiness at first, Gaby figured out how to empty the chamber, and remove the magazine, then she pulled down the front of the trigger guard. She disassembled the pistol with a mechanic’s careful logic, ignoring the grease that she was getting over her hands and under her short-trimmed nails, and arranged the pieces in neat order on the tablecloth. Studying them for a moment, Gaby took in another slow breath, and reassembled the gun, this time with more confidence. Now she had felt its guts and its spine and its ribs, and she was no longer afraid.

v.

In the harsh light of the morning, after a few hours of sleep, coffee, and food, Illya was convinced that the night had been a misadventure. More or less. The entire situation had been ridiculous from the start and then it had escalated: Illya had grabbed Solo’s tie to try to intimidate him into shutting up, and Solo had promptly upped the ante… and then Illya had briefly lost his temper, only to be blindsided by Solo’s utter lack of shame and propriety. Yes. That had been it.

He was in a poor mood still as he talked to the contact at the bureau. The KGB had not been aware of anything with regards to the plans being transacted at the Hotel Seranda, but it seemed that Oleg had left a note that Illya was to call him immediately once he was at the bureau. 

Illya sat at a desk beside the phone as the contact dialled and got through to Moscow, then finally handed the handset to Illya and turned on his heel, disappearing briskly out of the spartan room without a further word. The KGB’s safehouse in Istanbul was a modest little house in a side street, with a main exit to the road and two side exits leading to different alleys, as well as a cellar that adjoined another house across the street. There were sparse furnishings, and the chair creaked under Illya’s weight as he held the phone to his ear. 

“Illya,” Oleg said, cold and unemotional as ever. “How is Istanbul?”

“Hot.” Illya dutifully related his report, starting from the briefing in the plane to the misadventure during the night - minus the kiss - Kara’s information, and finally concluded with the card with the drawing of a bird. It was, he had to admit to himself, rather a pleasure to be speaking in Russian again. 

Oleg listened in silence, a silence that drew out when Illya concluded, and Illya rubbed the heel of his palm against his temple, already beginning to suspect what was coming next.

“The American was playing with you,” Oleg said curtly. 

“The information on the card-“

“A joke. They are not above their jokes.” Oleg grunted. “If this friend of his truly handled the plans, then the two of you should have forced her to tell you both everything that she knows. The CIA is not sentimental, and Napoleon Solo is very successful as an agent. He knew that she knew nothing important.” 

Illya took in a slow breath, then he let it out, biting down on his disagreement. “About the Atlas-D and the-“ 

“There is no missing Atlas-D missile. We would have known, and the CIA would have known,” Oleg said curtly. “Those are _rockets_ , Illya, not some package that can be carried away in a car. This talk of a ‘live’ missile was misdirection.”

Illya said nothing. It was best not to say anything when Oleg became like this, haranguing agents over supposed mistakes, forever harsh both on his tools and upon himself. And besides. Perhaps Oleg _was_ right. The jackal was a wily one, and even if the set up had been elaborate just for a practical joke, perhaps there was something more sinister about it. _American_ plans had gone missing, after all, and Solo was on loan, just as Illya was on loan. They were not truly colleagues in any sense of the word. In Solo’s place, Illya might have tried to do the same, if in a less roundabout way.

“More importantly,” Oleg added, “Whether or not the ATV plans are or are not recovered is no longer your priority. It was at the beginning an American problem, and it should remain an American problem. We have a… situation. This Korolyov Consultation that you mentioned.”

“It might be his 1934 work on-“ 

“Sergey Korolyov,” Oleg interrupted, “Went missing a month ago from Moscow.” 

“A month ago!” Illya repeated, horrified. “But I wasn’t t-“

“You are a very bright young agent,” Oleg cut in. “But you are not the _best_ of my agents. Experience is just as important as talent. And,” Oleg added, as Illya sucked in a harsh breath, “ _Obedience_ is also just as important. Yes?”

“Yes,” Illya murmured, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. 

“We have been searching the country with no result. Of course only those who truly need to know are aware that the Chief Designer is missing: a story has been fed to his team that he has been taken to the hospital for some medical problem. He _is_ , however, not a well man, and must be found.” 

“May I help?” Illya asked tightly. 

“You will,” Oleg shot back. “This is the best lead that I have heard on Korolyov’s whereabouts in a week. Perhaps Korolyov is in Istanbul, perhaps not. But this is more important than your ‘loan’ to U.N.C.L.E. and your friendship with that American agent. Understand?”

 _We are not friends_ , Illya wanted to protest, but he knew that disagreement would only provoke Oleg further at this point. “Yes, I understand.”

“Use your new ‘friends’ if you need to. But find Korolyov first. And remember. The Americans want to kill him. So this time. If you _do_ find Korolyov, get rid of Napoleon Solo. Understand?”

“Yes. I understand.” 

“I expect a daily report,” Oleg said curtly. “And I expect _results_. You disappointed me when you chose treason over your country before. Do not disappoint me again.”

Illya’s free hand curled tightly into a fist over his thigh, but Oleg had already hung up. Slowly, Illya did so as well, and rubbed his other hand over his face again, stifling a slow and wavering breath. Then he pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth so much that his jaw ached, and left the safehouse in a blind rush. 

Two streets down, he had finally calmed down enough to breathe normally again, the red rage leaving his blood. He leaned his shoulder against a sun-warmed wall, taking in measured breaths as he watched people walk past, oblivious, most of them not even giving him a second glance.

Kara. Kara had said ‘live resources’. She had not mentioned a missile. Kara did not perhaps deal in ‘large property’, as Solo mentioned, but a man was not perhaps ‘large property’ to an art fence, as he? 

It took Illya a moment to find an unattended motorcycle, another moment to hotwire it, and then he was on his way, trying to remember landmarks from last night’s drive deeper into Istanbul. He lost his way twice - Napoleon, as it turned out, had taken a circuitous way to Kara’s ‘house’ after all - but eventually, Illya made it. 

Thanks to the smoke. 

Illya left the motorcycle in a side street and sidled into the crowd of gawkers, keeping his hat pulled low over his eyes. The house with the high wooden gate was a blackened wreck, as were the houses to its left and right, the rock garden singed, the walls collapsed inwards. Firemen were still milling about, as were police, but bodies were already being stretchered out, smothered in white cloth.

“Apparently it was an accident.” 

Illya looked sharply to his left. Solo had somehow snuck up beside him without Illya noticing, and he was dressed down: the sharp suit was gone, and he was wearing an unremarkable gray jacket and a black shirt. Gone too was the jackal’s smile: Solo’s face was carefully blank. Anger, perhaps? No, Illya decided, as he studied him: Solo was not angry. But he was wary.

“Sorry about your friends.” Illya offered quietly, pitching his voice softly enough to almost be inaudible.

Solo didn’t answer for a long moment, watching the slow, sad procession of white-cloaked bodies, being loaded into the back of a police van. “I wonder,” he said instead, a little cryptically, and turned on his heel, ambling away from the gathering crowd. Illya hesitated, then followed him, keeping an eye out with his peripheral vision, but he didn’t make any watchers, nor did the authorities at hand seem interested in anything but the ruin. 

“What brought you here?” Solo inquired, once they were a block away, in a quieter street.

“Curiosity. Yourself?” 

“Curiosity,” Solo echoed, and finally looked amused, more like his usual self. “Gaby’s U.N.C.L.E. contact operates in a nearby district. I heard the news about the fire and decided to investigate.” 

“Her contact?”

“Told her that nothing untoward had taken place in the Hotel Seranda for weeks.”

Illya sucked in a slow breath. “Incompetence or a traitor?”

Solo flashed him a grin. “Neither. As it turns out, the real U.N.C.L.E. contact is dead. I disposed of the impostor.” 

“Then Gaby’s in danger-“

“Relax. We’ve switched lodgings,” Solo said dismissively. “Hotel Seranda is owned by the ‘Turdus Corporation’, as are a number of other ‘hotels’. Thanks to the impostor, I have a list. There are three, not including Seranda, and Gaby is, through Waverly, sourcing other properties owned by Turdus that might be relevant to our matter. I propose that we split the list between ourselves to save time. Unless you have a better idea.”

Splitting the list might mean losing Korolyov to Solo, if the American thief was in the right place and Illya was at the wrong one. Illya’s fingertips itched, but he kept his hands resolutely still. “I think we should wait till we get the full list of properties. There are hundreds of places to hide even in a small hotel. Two men searching many hotels will take a long time and still miss hiding places.” 

“I wasn’t talking about hiding places,” Solo said, raising an eyebrow, “I was interested in tracking other auctions. For missile parts, perhaps. I very much doubt that they stole the plans just to hide them in a hotel, and there aren’t that many places in a hotel where you can hold an auction.”

Illya silently cursed his slip of the tongue. “I think we should not split up,” he said instead. “Your late friend seems to have been rightly concerned about this ‘new player’.” 

“In _this_ , I’m quite capable of handling myself, Peril,” Solo said, though he grinned. “Aww. You _are_ concerned.”

“Concerned that your terrible Turkish or Romani will betray you,” Illya muttered, and clenched his teeth. Unease twisted in his gut, an unpleasant and ugly curl. Impulsively, he nearly told Solo everything, of Oleg’s orders, of Korolyov’s disappearance, but at the last moment, he held his tongue, breathing in unsteadily, then out. 

“About that kiss last night,” Solo began idly, misunderstanding Illya’s tension. 

To Illya’s mortification, he felt himself redden. “We are _not_ going to speak of it!”

“Suit yourself, Peril,” said the jackal, as it laughed, the sound itself a whisper of sin. “But if you ever get curious again, let me know.”


	7. Chapter 7

V.

Something was definitely off about Illya. Napoleon had already caught him staring twice, as they made their way through slow traffic towards Hotel Mira, the closest Turdus property to The House. Napoleon was fairly sure what the issue was, of course. Giving in to impulse and kissing Illya had perhaps been a bad idea after all. A distraction. Now Illya was out of sorts and resentful all over again, the last of the fragile camaraderie that they had built over the Vinciguerra affair long driven into the dirt, all because Napoleon couldn’t control himself.

Napoleon stifled a sigh, as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. They were locked in traffic, and he was regretting the route, pulled off memories that were clearly years out of date. If they had both taken bikes they could’ve made it to Mira all the quicker. 

Ah well. Napoleon didn’t believe in ignoring a problem and hoping that it would go away, and besides, Illya was trapped here right with him, and the silence was grating on Napoleon’s nerves. 

“Kara used to be an agent.” Napoleon said, into the silence. 

“MAH?” Illya’s tone was neutral, but at least he was talking.

“Mossad.” 

“She did not look old enough to have worked with Mossad and then as a fence.” 

“She wasn’t. She worked for Collections, I think.” 

Illya puzzled this over for a moment. “She was undercover? Why did you ever talk to her, then?”

“Because Mossad or not, she was still a damned good fence. I think after a while she began to enjoy her cover far more than her actual job,” Napoleon shrugged. “It was certainly more lucrative, and perhaps more fun. She’s not the last to go native.”

Illya narrowed his eyes a fraction. “And do you?” he asked challengingly. “Do you like being an agent?”

“Not in the least.” Napoleon admitted easily. 

“It is better than being a thief.” 

“Ah, but when I was a thief,” Napoleon noted, with a faint smile, “I didn’t have to kill people and call it patriotism.”

Illya actually flinched and looked away, out of the window. Young enough still to be troubled by his own conscience, perhaps. An older KGB spy would have shot Napoleon briskly in the room over the disk without even thinking twice, Napoleon was sure of _that_. 

“You are trapped either way,” Illya said slowly, as though thinking out aloud. “Even if Waverly manages to take you from the CIA, you will only be changing the colour of your leash. It will still be a short leash, held by a small man.”

“Possibly.”

“We are in one of the biggest cities in the world,” Illya nodded at the snarl of traffic that enmeshed them before looking back over. “Why don’t you disappear? The CIA caught you once. But no doubt you have learned. Your usual handler is not here - your current handler is inexperienced and trusts you. You should disappear.”

“I’ve already been subject to Miss Teller’s wrath recently,” Napoleon briefly held up his injured hand. Illya snorted, unimpressed. “You’re right. I could disappear if I wanted to. And it _is_ tempting.” 

“But?”

“I’m not entirely pleased by the idea of a third party with ICBMs.” 

“Liar.” Illya said gruffly. “You do not care. Or. Perhaps you did not care. Not until they burned your friends.” 

“I really should be offended by your utter conviction that I lack a single shred of human decency,” Napoleon said dryly. 

“Oh?”

“It just happens to be deucedly difficult to stay offended by handsome people,” Napoleon observed, and winked. Illya reddened all over again, hilariously, and managed a furious glare before snapping his gaze back to the window, now icily quiet. 

Ah well. He had tried. Napoleon fiddled with the radio, switching desultorily between various government-controlled channels before Illya reached over and switched it back off, his movements jerky and irritable. Napoleon sighed, and Illya’s glare twitched up to Napoleon’s eyes for a moment before settling back out at the traffic.

“You should just go,” Illya said then, quite suddenly. “Who will know? Gaby would not even think to keep tabs on you, or if she does, I can deflect it. By the time Waverly or the CIA look for you, you can be all the way elsewhere. Bombay, Mombasa, somewhere they cannot find you.”

“Worried, Peril?”

Illya snorted. “CIA, KGB, they are all the same. If you were so concerned about ending up in a CIA black site then you should go. You may never have another chance. I can finish this mission myself.”

“What about you?” Napoleon asked blandly. “Why don’t you cut and run? Reputation isn’t everything, and somehow I don’t exactly get the feeling that you really love what you do.”

“Love?” Illya repeated contemptuously. “What I do is necessary. For the good of my country. Society only works when everyone knows their place.”

“Common ownership of everything?” Napoleon chuckled. “A pipe dream. There’s inequality everywhere, no matter how you look at it. Cruelty and exploitation are key to the human existence, no matter what colour a government takes. It’s all just a matter of opinion and degree.” 

“That’s a…” Illya hesitated. “A dark way to look at the world.” 

“I would call it a pragmatic way of looking at the world.” Napoleon corrected. “Stop thinking that the world is bound to eventually do you a favour and you’ll live a happier and safer life.” He winked at Illya. “Like you, for example. If last night is still troubling you-“

“Would you stop referring to it!”

“-then it’s probably a sign of a more deep-seated problem,” Napoleon continued, ignoring the interruption. “For which I would prescribe a course of further exploration in order to get it out of your system.” 

“You think too much of yourself,” Illya said, after a long pause.

“I know. It’s a character flaw.”

“Is that why you do not leave, then? You think that you can do this mission, then come to some deal with Waverly?”

“I’m a pragmatist, Peril. Thief or not, I do _have_ to live in this world. And I’m not certain that allowing a rogue organisation of some sort to run about freely with ICBMs is good for it as a whole. If a forest burns, even the rats suffer. After that? We’ll see.”

“I can handle the mission myself. We already have a main suspect, and a list of places. I have had harder missions.”

“No doubt,” Napoleon said, amused, “But like it or not, you’re stuck with me for now. So stop trying to get rid of me. If anything, Gaby will be terribly disappointed, and I hate disappointing women who’ve shown a marked inclination to hurt me if they don’t get their way.”

Some of the welling irritation in Illya’s face levelled off at the mention of Gaby’s name, which was a nice effect. Napoleon mentally filed it away along with Illya’s Father’s Watch as yet another lion-taming trick. “She should not be here,” Illya said finally. 

“You’ve no right to decide what she can or cannot do.” Napoleon pointed out. “I suppose you could marry her and gain some sort of say-“

“ _What_.” 

“-but I’m not certain that she’ll listen to you anyway.” 

“There is nothing between us,” Illya said, scowling impressively. 

“I don’t see why not. You’re young, so is she, she’s pretty, you’re handsome… she’s a budding spy for some organisation I’ve never heard of until recently, you’re a KGB spy… you’re both prone to sudden inexplicable bursts of violence… you’re perfect for each other.”

“Just be quiet,” Illya snarled at him, “Be _quiet_.” 

“All right, all right. No need to bite my head off,” Napoleon said blithely, “But just so you know, if you don’t get your pipes cleaned out now and then… that might be the reason behind said inexplicable bursts of violence.” 

“I should have killed you in that hotel room,” Illya growled.

“Ah, Peril. You say the sweetest things.”

vi.

There had been nothing relevant at the Hotel Mira, although they did unearth and scatter a trafficking ring - simple enough wetwork, and the smuggled victims left terrified and disoriented for the authorities to take care of. Solo had made increasingly pointed remarks the whole way about splitting up, and Illya was increasingly running out of evasions. Particularly when it was patently true that even Solo could have handled Mira by himself one-handed, if need be.

They met Gaby at a CIA safehouse a block away from her new hotel, an apartment above a teahouse, shuttered for the night. Illya hadn’t particularly wanted to, especially since none of them were sure how deep Turdus’ infiltration into U.N.C.L.E. had been, but it had seemed safe on arrival and the neighborhood was good: not too busy, not too quiet. 

And it was good to see Gaby again. She grinned unabashedly at Illya as he followed Solo into the small apartment, rising up from where she had been seated at a table piled with reports. Paperwork and files had half-buried a telephone, and on the floor there was a large map of Istanbul, pinned to a wall, and marked at points with red inked circles, along with a few photographs, and another, larger map of Turkey, also inked with circles. The room was narrow, with one window facing out to a street, and other side rooms: a disused bathroom that had been converted to a darkroom, a bedroom that opened to a fire escape, with a dusty cot, and a kitchenette, empty. 

“Gaby,” Illya greeted her, with a quick smile in return that he couldn’t help. “You have a new purse.” 

“Like it?” Gaby patted the cream moccasin handbag with its black strap, high enough to be carried on the shoulder.

“Gucci?” Solo inquired, as he wandered past to look at the map. “Fan of the First Lady, are we?” 

“As much as any American businessman’s wife would be,” Gaby shot back, and Solo grinned impishly at her, as though they’d just shared a private joke. Irked and feeling irrationally left out of the loop, Illya stalked over to the table, glancing over the reports. 

“Where did you get these from? I thought your contact was compromised.” 

“Waverly flew them in through another contact for me,” Gaby said. “In response to our queries - it only arrived for me an hour or so ago. It seems that the Turdus Corporation is a suspected subsidiary of an organisation called Thrush.”

“What a strange name for a criminal organisation,” Solo raised his eyebrows. “Normally they prefer to go for things like ‘WASP’, or ‘The Syndicate’ or-“

“Stands for…” Gaby checked her notes, “Um, the ‘Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity’.”

There was a long silence, then Solo asked, very dryly, “ _Really_? Really the ’Subjugation of Humanity’?”

“Really,” Gaby said, if dubiously.

“What on earth? Why don’t they just call themselves something like ‘The Brotherhood of Evil’? It’ll be equally ridiculous.” Solo let out a long sigh, and turned his attention to the photographs. “I can’t understand people.”

“Apparently it was founded by one Colonel Moran,” Gaby flicked through her notes again.

“ _The_ Moran?” Solo looked back over at Gaby, blinking. 

“Sebastian Moran,” Gaby confirmed. “Founded T.H.R.U.S.H. after the death of one James Moriarty in 1891.” 

“… Suddenly I understand why such a ridiculous name was chosen.” 

“I thought the Sherlock Holmes stories were just stories,” Illya began, then he shook his head. “No matter. How much does Waverly know about T.H.R.U.S.H.?”

“As much as could be expected,” Gaby said mildly, “Given that it seems that the whole point of U.N.C.L.E. being formed and operated was to counter T.H.R.U.S.H., or so I’ve just been told. They just happen to intervene with adjacent matters now and then. Which, apparently, was what the Vinciguerra problem was. An 'adjacent' problem.” Gaby sounded torn between helpless amusement and exasperation.

Now _that_ was curious. Illya glanced at the map with a new light. “They’re that dangerous?” He regretted the question once he had spoken it. T.H.R.U.S.H. was clearly dangerous. Dangerous enough to have successfully kidnapped Korolyov out of Moscow, from under the noses of the KGB, to have hidden him for a month-

“Interesting,” Solo said, with a sharp grin, bright with near feral amusement. “So we have a mortal nemesis! How _exciting_. Just like in the movies.”

“Try to take this seriously,” Illya growled.

“I assure you that I am absolutely taking, very seriously, this threat posed by a number of unfortunate people who have chosen to try and take over the world as a life ambition,” Solo said, with an absolutely serious face. “I mean, all _I_ personally aspire to do is to be able to retire comfortably and quietly in the Bahamas.”

“Shows a lack of ambition,” Gaby said, with archly feigned pity.

“I know,” Solo said sadly. “I should just shoot myself and be done with it.”

Life was quite quickly spiralling utterly out of hand again. That was the problem when Gaby and Solo were together in the room, Illya decided wearily. Chaos tended to meet and multiply. 

“It simplifies some things,” Illya said, as he sorted through the reports - most looked like just reports of old skirmishes between U.N.C.L.E. and T.H.R.U.S.H., the bulk of which involved MI6 or CIA agents, judging from the names. Biological weapons theft, sabotage, chemical weapons factories, trafficking rings, even something or other to do with the Korean War - T.H.R.U.S.H. clearly had their fingers in many pots, all at once, with seemingly no particular ambition but chaos. They were a cancer. 

“Really? I rather think it complicates everything,” Solo raised his eyebrows. “I mean, if it was just another firm like the Vinciguerras, eventually they would have tried to on-sell the ATV plans to the highest bidder, at which point, our countries could perhaps try to bid, if they had no other alternative.”

Illya nodded. “That is why it is now simpler. Clearly, this T.H.R.U.S.H. will try to build the device themselves _and_ maybe use it. So they buy the plans. Now they buy resources. But you cannot just build and launch the ATV from a basement. You need big site. Away from everything.” He walked closer to the map of Turkey. “Here, for example.” 

Solo followed his pointing finger. “The South Anatolia region?”

“Least developed areas, and the poorest. In the mountainous areas, also isolated. T.H.R.U.S.H. could buy up entire villages and make them work. Feed their base through closed ecosystem. Hard to track. Near Syrian border.”

“No properties there,” Gaby said dubiously.

“That we know of.” Solo added absently. “Yes, I see your point, Peril. Assuming, of course, that T.H.R.U.S.H. is even building in Turkey at all. For all we know, they might’ve just set up in the middle of the Sahara.”

“Why are they routing so many parts through Istanbul if they do not have an operation in the country?” 

“I don’t know, why did they give themselves such an absurd name?” Solo grinned. “We’re dealing with madmen.”

“They seem sane and dangerous enough,” Illya shot back. “Or so Waverly seems to think.”

“Boys, boys,” Gaby interrupted sharply. “Let’s leave the psychological analysis of T.H.R.U.S.H. for another day, please. Can we talk about Hotel Mira yet?”

“There was nothing there. Waste of time.” Illya told her. 

“There was always a chance that it would be a waste of time,” Solo retorted dryly. “Which is why I suggested that we _split up_ , remember?” 

Illya glowered at Solo. “Plan was not so good. Maybe you should not have killed impostor agent so quickly. That was also not so good.” 

“Yes, yes, hindsight and all that, I didn’t quite see the suicide pill he had hidden in a fake molar. Terribly bad form,” Solo looked back at the map. “And you’re right. Searching all these properties might be rather unfeasible - by ourselves. Particularly if there are unlisted regions out there where T.H.R.U.S.H. might be actually assembling an ICBM. Unless Waverly’s willing to involve other resources.”

“He’s reviewing current U.N.C.L.E. units in Istanbul,” Gaby confessed. “Sorry.”

“Another plan,” Illya said then, as it struck him. A way to remove Solo from the immediate problem of accidentally stumbling onto Korolyov. “You still have friends in Istanbul? Like Kara?”

“I suppose so, yes. Kara was the best of the lot, however, rest her soul.” 

Gaby caught on quickly. “Illya can keep looking through these properties just to be sure. While you can try and reach out to your other contacts. Everything getting funnelled through has to have been stolen from various places, and it all has to be going _somewhere_. That’s rather your line of expertise than mine or Illya’s.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Solo said dubiously. “But I’m not sure if it’s quite as efficient. Kara knew that I had gotten caught by the CIA. If she knows, it’s possible that the others know.” 

“I’m sure that charming them back over to your side isn’t beyond you,” Gaby said dismissively. “I suppose for myself I’ll read through all these reports to see if I can find some sort of clue. And keep in contact with Waverly.” 

They packed the reports back into a case, and Solo went off with Gaby to escort her back to their new hotel. Illya waited for a safe enough interval of time before leaving through a separate exit, wary of any observers, and making his way back to the Hilton Istanbul, where he quietly scanned his room for bugs, then checked out. 

Hotwiring another motorcycle, Illya drove to an adjoining district, avoiding the main streets and occasionally doubling back, until he was certain that he wasn’t being followed. Ditching the bike several streets away, Illya entered one of the KGB’s Istanbul safehouses through the fire escape, deactivated the simple traps, and switched the light on. 

Solo grinned at him from across the living room space, from where he had been leaning quietly against the frame of the door out, arms folded, still in his black turtleneck and trousers. “Ah, Tophane,” Solo said cheerfully, as Illya stared at him. “Nice view of the Bosphorus.” 

“Also a lot of migrant workers, good for foreigners,” Illya pointed out warily. “What do you want?” 

It would be easy to get rid of Solo here. Illya had a knife up his sleeve - if he caught Solo by surprise it would be easy, and with the Bosphorus strait so close by, he could dump the body and be elsewhere with U.N.C.L.E. none the wiser. Illya’s fingers itched, the fingertips trembling a little, and Solo’s gaze darted down, then back up. 

“To talk,” Solo said, still with his easy smile, pushing away from the wall and prowling closer. “Man to man.” 

“About what?” Illya forced himself to stay still. No. Not yet. He still needed Solo. Solo and his ‘friends’. Taking on T.H.R.U.S.H. by himself at this point in time was too difficult, particularly since Illya was desperately short on time. Until Illya found Korolyov, he needed Solo. 

Solo was far too close now, close enough that Illya could smell the faint scent of cologne, see the devil’s mischief in his eyes. Illya refused to be intimidated. He glared back, and set his jaw, standing his ground, which turned out to be a mistake. 

“About what your real problem with me is,” Solo purred, all smoky promise, and leaned close to kiss Illya hard on the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things so far:
> 
> 1\. I really do love the spy genre. So, all the references.  
> 2\. Mentioning that Waverly was likely part of the Circus - Tinker Tailor reference.   
> 3\. Yes, according to the wiki, that's indeed what T.H.R.U.S.H. stands for. :o And yeah, founded by Sebastian Moran. ;) Part of canon.   
> 4\. As to U.N.C.L.E., it is meant to be an organisation made up of spies of various nationalities, at least from the title intro for the 1960s show, so actually, it is like Rogue Nation in a way that is more like Mission Impossible is the reverse of the original Man from U.N.C.L.E.  
> 5\. "Section One" is NOT a reference to Nikita, it's more like Nikita is referencing MfU (Waverly's code name is Number One from Section One)   
> 6\. Mention of the double-0s: Ref to how Ian Fleming helped to create MfU  
> 7\. Mention of Victoria Winslow: Ref to my fav spy series of all time so far, R.E.D. (Watch it if you haven't!)   
> 8\. Moving black sites: Actual thing, but also, ref to Person of Interest


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has changed the story's general rating. Double check it if this is something that'll concern you. Most of the fic will still be T-rated.

VI.

Illya tensed all the way up under Napoleon’s hands, but promisingly, didn’t instantly try to shove him off/break his nose/knife Napoleon in the guts, which Napoleon decided meant that he had been Right All Along, yet again, about whatever it was that had been making Illya act so strangely the whole day.

It was always so good to be right. 

Napoleon’s tongue met teeth as he tried to lick into Illya’s mouth, and for a moment the entire proposition seemed ill-fated, but then there was a small and strangled noise and Illya opened up for it, dropping his bag, and curling his fingers restlessly up high on Napoleon’s arms, as though frozen between wanting to push Napoleon away or holding him still. 

“Napoleon,” Illya hissed unsteadily, in between a gasp for breath, and this close Illya’s eyes seemed impossibly blue, vulnerable, even - but no, Napoleon knew _that_ to be untrue. 

He could feel Illya’s strength from the curl of his fingers, from the unmovable weight of his frame, instinctively balanced to strike; here was a predator far more dangerous than Napoleon himself, in a way. For Kara had called Napoleon a magpie with claws, but Illya was a wolf, and neither his handsome face, his brilliant blue eyes nor his grace could hide the steel trap of his jaws. 

“So now you remember my first name,” Napoleon drawled, and when Illya sucked in an irritable breath, Napoleon kissed him again, for sometimes the only possible alternative was to escalate, and he could feel a tremor shudder through Illya’s broad shoulders, like a winding spring that was winching to breaking point, his big fingers creeping higher and higher up yet, clenching and loosening over Napoleon’s shirt, until knuckles brushed intimately against Napoleon’s throat. 

Napoleon purred in a low and breathless rumble and pressed closer instead of listening to his instincts and jerking back, closer until it was Illya who was stumbling back, shoulders scraping up against the cheap plaster of the wall, one hand twisting up to curl through the hair at the back of Napoleon’s skull, the other skittering down to press against his spine. Napoleon had seen firsthand what those hands could do: lift a motorcycle several times Illya’s weight, tear off the back of a car; and now he moaned, for Napoleon had never been ever afraid of lust, not when it was clean like this, hot and self-indulgent and destructive. 

This was lust like a forest fire, that scoured self-control and propriety and rationality alike, that burned primal and visceral all the way to the bone, and Napoleon felt it rarely, gave in to it more rarely still, and now he breathed it, lived it. If he could, Napoleon would infect Illya with it. Perhaps he did. Beneath his urgent caress, creeping up under Illya’s shirt, Napoleon felt Illya sob a tiny and desperate groan against Napoleon's cheek that shook into a brittle, barking laugh, like a pressure valve whistling critical, winding tighter, tighter. 

“Napoleon,” Illya said again, and this time it was in a growl, gashed against his ear, followed by teeth that caught briefly and stingingly in Napoleon’s flesh. “Remember,” Illya said harshly, “Remember I tried to get you to run.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” Napoleon said, and pulled off Illya’s hat, tossing it aside and earning himself another irritable glare. “I’m a big boy, Peril. In more ways than one.” He winked, but Illya merely shot him a faintly puzzled glance, the subtext perhaps not translating well, and then Illya seemed to settle for pulling off Napoleon’s jacket, dumping it on the ground. 

They kissed again, and this time Illya was no passive recipient; he kissed as boldly and as fiercely as he fought, even if he was rather more enthusiastic than skilled, his jacket, then their shoulder holsters joining the growing pile on the ground, hands roaming, hungry, Napoleon’s fingertips pressing against a ridged scar high under Illya’s shoulder blades, rucking up under his turtleneck, Illya’s curses growing hoarse and stuttered as he traced an old gunshot scar on Napoleon’s flank. They were learning the base stories of their lives, worn in violence and writ over their skin in old scar tissue and scoured lines and the old flecks of gunshot puckers, in lean muscle honed _for_ violence. And violence was gritty in their breaths and in the biting roughness of their kisses, lips mauled, gazes darkening, unfocused. 

“I haven’t - I haven’t done this before,” Illya breathed, but he didn’t sound nervous any longer, or brittle; it was hunger that Illya had whispered between them, hunger that he left imprinted against Napoleon’s skin as he bit down, high enough on his neck that Napoleon might have to wear a turtleneck himself tomorrow. 

“So far, you’re doing fine, Peril,” Napoleon assured him, and went down onto his knees, smirking as Illya tensed up again, wide eyed for a moment before those big fingers pressed tentatively down on Napoleon’s shoulders, and then Illya bit out something garbled as Napoleon undid his belt, then the button on his trousers, and licked slowly up the warmed metal of the zipper before tugging down the zip with his teeth. 

Napoleon could feel a shocked moan shudder through Illya, knees pressed to Napoleon’s shoulders, an urgent pressure reflected in fingers that shook slightly as they curled restlessly up over Napoleon’s skull. He could hear the same urgent pressure in the hushed whisper of Napoleon’s name as he drew Illya’s cock out, cupped in hands that had ended some lives and ruined so many others. Napoleon breathed deep with a sinner’s relish and with the joyous ecstasy of one long damned over sins far worse than this, and licked over the swelling cap, deliberately noisy, as though tasting a treat. 

Fingers curled painfully tight in Napoleon’s hair, then were gone, and Napoleon glanced up in time to see Illya tip his head back against the wall, neck flushed and bared, teeth clenched, hands clawed over the plaster; the wolf was lost, and Napoleon greedily chased its ruination, sealing his mouth over thickened flesh and drinking it down, easing his gag reflex, until his lips kissed the fist he had made over the root of Illya’s cock. 

One of Illya’s hands darted up as Napoleon pulled lazily back, to strangle his own cries, fingers pressing into his reddened mouth, choking down his whimpers as though trying to dig away the pleasure, to stifle his lust. It clearly wasn’t working. Satisfied, Napoleon took him in again, hollowing his cheeks, and this time when he felt Illya’s cock press against the back of his throat he breathed hard through his nose and began to suck, the fingers of his free hand dug hard enough into the meat of Illya’s thigh to leave a half-bracelet of bruises tomorrow. 

Illya’s hips twitched awkwardly for a moment against him, involuntarily, and Napoleon purred, choked and hungry enough that he heard a gasped and wordless exclamation of disbelief above him. Napoleon tugged at Illya’s thigh, and Illya seemed to understand - he rolled his hips, if slowly and tentatively, and the pace stayed slow, even as Illya’s knees trembled against Napoleon’s shoulders with the effort of being so careful and his nails scraped loudly against the plaster. 

Lust pressed Napoleon’s cock painfully against his trousers, and as he freed himself with jerky fingers and took himself in hand he could hear Illya’s startled hiss of disbelief, and if Napoleon could laugh, he would’ve. Why would Illya be surprised that Napoleon could enjoy this? After all, it was power that Napoleon felt pressed against him, power that he tasted, bitter and heavy against his tongue, pulsed against the aching stretch of his jaw, power that he eventually drank down, greedy as ever, when Illya finally arched into Napoleon’s mouth and slapped his hand back against the wall, hard enough to shake and rattle the glass in the window. 

Napoleon rocked back on his heels, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand then licking the spend, and then he let out a startled huff as Illya was abruptly upon him, pinning him to the ground, his kiss again bruisingly, bitingly hard, one hand jerking Napoleon’s head back, fisted in his hair, the other curling dry around Napoleon’s cock and tugging roughly. It _hurt_ and Napoleon was trapped and he was suddenly coming so hard that he felt dizzy, all over Illya’s long fingers and his clothes; lust had blindsided him and sucked him under and now Napoleon was light-headed from it, floating, sated. 

Illya wiped his hand off on Napoleon’s shirt, ignoring Napoleon’s mumbled protest, then rolled off him onto his back, shoulder to shoulder, eyes closed and breathing hard. Absently, all but dreamily, Napoleon slowly pulled off his soiled shirt, then used it to wipe himself down, before tossing it aside and tucking himself back in. The floor felt coarse against his bared back, sweat was cooling on his skin, and his knees ached, but for now, all seemed perfectly right with the world. Napoleon smiled. 

“You are the devil,” Illya said finally, when he had caught his breath and tucked himself away, though he didn’t get up.

“You could throw me out now,” Napoleon suggested idly, “Or we could sleep it off, and in the morning, if you’re still feeling ‘curious’, we could do this all over again.” 

Illya was still for a long moment, then he growled, and hauled Napoleon over in a messy sprawl on top of him, and closed his teeth back over the flesh of Napoleon’s throat, the pressure tightening only when Napoleon laughed.

d.

The Grand Hotel des Londres was nowhere as lavishly modern as the Hilton had been, and Gaby felt as though she had taken a step back into the previous century, sitting at breakfast in the hotel restaurant and having tea, surrounded by antiques. Solo had been a no-show for breakfast, but he had warned her as much, saying that he was going to spend the night chasing after old contacts.

Besides, Gaby didn’t mind. She’d been independent most of her life, after her father had abandoned her, first for the Nazis and then for the Americans, all without bothering to get her across the wall. Gaby would have breakfast, and then would spend the day exploring what Solo had blithely called the ‘more touristy bits’ of Istanbul, have lunch somewhere chic, and then spend the rest of the day sorting through Waverly’s documentation. 

She wasn’t entirely sure what else she was meant to be doing, but apparently that was ‘per normal’ for espionage anyway, where handlers were concerned. Gaby had been left with a vague conviction, when Solo had left for the night, that Solo had not only had a low opinion of his previous handler but a low opinion of many other members of his latest profession in general. 

It was fairly obvious that he didn’t particularly expect her to exert herself very much at all. Or, perhaps more precisely, Solo clearly didn’t seem to care either way. Gaby wasn’t fooled by his advice, or even the ‘gift’ of the gun. Solo expected to solve the problem of the stolen plans himself, maybe with Illya’s help, but not so much with Gaby’s. 

As Gaby ate her second pastry, a woman paused by her table, sheathed in a sleek black and white frock, her neck crowned with a dash of orange silk, bronzed wrists wreathed with heavy gold bracelets, fingers dotted with rings. The woman was wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat over mousy brown hair, cut short over her shoulders, and she smiled at Gaby, her dark eyes bright with curiosity, as beautiful as a movie star. 

“Bonjour. May I?” the woman asked, with a sleek French accent. “You are American, no? We foreign ladies should stick together, yes?” 

“Er,” Gaby began, startled, wondering how to extricate herself, but the woman had already seated herself, her Dior bag in her lap, hailing the waiter over for tea and breakfast. It was a little late in the morning, and they were alone in the restaurant for breakfast: the waiter blushed when the woman smiled at him, and hustled away briskly. 

“Sorry, I don’t-“ Gaby began, but the woman tipped up her hat, studying her intently. 

“You are also CIA?” The woman’s voice pitched lower, and now her feigned French accent was gone: Gaby could no longer place her voice. As Gaby froze, the woman extended one elegant arm. “We have a mutual friend, I think. I am called Kara.”

“Kara!” Gaby whispered, surprised, though she shook Kara’s hand. “I thought - that is, I was told that you had ah.”

“Died?” Kara snorted. “No. But it is a good story.” 

“Well, um,” Gaby blinked. “I’m… glad to see that the rumours were unfounded.”

Kara’s lush mouth quirked briefly up into a smile. “You are, I think, holding our mutual friend’s leash.”

“Only technically.”

“And you are new.” Kara shook her head slowly. “Interesting. Tell me, Miss Handler. Why is America and Russia working together?”

Gaby tried not to make it too obvious that she was watching Kara’s hands. She was making an utter hash of this, she was sure of it, and helplessly, she wasn’t sure what to say next. “I…”

Kara sighed, her eyes darting around the room, and she straightened up as the waiter reappeared, with her pastry and the tea, still blushing. Once he had darted away, if with a few lingering, backward glances, Kara stirred a sugar cube lightly into her tea. She was tense, Gaby decided, watching Kara as she poured a spot of milk, then took a sip. Tense and frightened, even if it did not show so well. 

“What did our friend tell you about me?”

“That you’re… a fence.”

“And?”

“And Mossad,” Gaby murmured. Solo had told Gaby about Kara when he had escorted her back to the hotel during the night.

“And? Are we not friends?”

“I don’t know?” Gaby hazarded. “But he said you are the best of his contacts in Istanbul.” 

“America and Russia are finally going after T.H.R.U.S.H.?”

“In a sense,” Gaby said delicately. “We want to find the stolen plans.”

“Stolen plans are least of your concern,” Kara sniffed. “You are not American. German?” 

“Is it so obvious?” Gaby made a mental note to try to fix her accent. Maybe she should imitate Waverly. 

“Obvious, and dangerous. But you are young and you are pretty and most people will make their assumptions and not think twice.” Kara took another sip of her tea. “If you want to play this game then you should know. There is one game that the men play. We women play another game. More risk. Less reward.”

“That’s why you went native?” Gaby asked challengingly.

Kara smiled tightly at her. “You are most certainly neither CIA or KGB. They like to grind the sharp edges off their women.” 

“But not Mossad?”

“Oh, they will all try.” Kara raised her eyebrows, but would say no more about it, as she ate her pastry, and sipped her tea, until Gaby was so nervous that she felt hyper-alert of the world around her, of the weight of the Walther PPK in her handbag. She nearly flinched when the waiter came back to ask if the Madames would like more tea, and it was Kara who smiled sweetly and sent him away, with her fake French accent. 

“Are you looking for Napoleon?” Gaby said finally, and forced herself to smile back, and drink her tea. 

Kara merely stared at her thoughtfully for a long moment, then she poured herself another cup of tea. “Turdus is but one arm of many. You chase one, without watching the others, and another will strangle you from behind.”

Gaby bit down on her retort, forcing patience. “So help us. Napoleon said that you are the best.”

“Good,” Kara said, with a sharp smile. “I think you just need experience. Give yourself time under your belt and you will be very good indeed. You have some charm and you have some steel.”

Gaby refused to be flattered. “What do you mean when you say that the plans are the least of our problems?”

“Without materials the plans are worthless.”

“We heard that the materials are being filtered through Istanbul.”

“They may be,” Kara allowed, with another sharp smile.

“Does Mossad have an interest?”

“We have an interest in everything,” Kara allowed. “But yes. Of course. American and Russia compete in lengthening their teeth. But here, in this side of the world, they try to pull ours. So we are particularly interested.” 

If Kara was trying to tell her something, Gaby still had absolutely no idea what it was. “But you gave Napoleon a hint. And your property was burned.”

“A courtesy. For old times’ sake. I am here to pass on a message, if you will. Tell him that when he is ready, the drop is at the usual location.”

“More information?” 

“He will know what I mean.” Kara rose to her feet, like a cat uncurling. “ _Au revoir_ , Miss Handler. Tell Napoleon not to waste time looking for me. I am going home. Istanbul has grown a little too difficult for me at present.” 

“If T.H.R.U.S.H. is trying to kill you,” Gaby said doubtfully, “Maybe we can help each other. We could pool our resources and-” 

“Thank you for the offer, my dear. But it is not necessary.” Kara playfully tipped her hat and gathered up her purse, making as though to leave, extending her palm. They shook hands again, and Kara left, in a flurry of perfume and clicking heels. 

Once she was alone again, Gary subtly turned up her palm, to look at the card that Kara had slipped her. It was a phone number, to a local line. A Mossad contact, perhaps? Or something for Solo? Or something else altogether? Gaby slipped the card into her handbag, again feeling helplessly adrift at sea and out of her depth. She had no idea about the boundaries of the ‘game’ that Solo and Kara so casually referred to. Waverly seemed very far away, as did Solo, as did even Illya. 

Gaby was alone. 

Curling her lip, Gaby tightened her grip on the strap of her purse, then she finished her tea, and got to her feet. She would do what she had planned to do, she decided. She would walk the streets of this city, and try to listen to its heartbeat. She would have lunch. 

And then Gaby would find a public telephone. She was no victim, no mere messenger. She refused to be helpless.


	9. Chapter 9

VII.

A decade had changed far too much about Istanbul. Napoleon’s ‘friends’ were mostly dead, imprisoned, scattered, or informing for the MAH, and in the end, reluctantly, Napoleon checked in on the CIA contact, a small passenger shipping company at the relatively new Salıpazarı Pier.

The contact, a sour-faced Company man of mixed American-Turkish descent, clearly resented being stashed in Istanbul as a glorified administrator, and reluctantly handed Napoleon a folder, then the phone, tight-lipped and silent. Napoleon had swallowed a sigh. That was the problem with the Game. Play it for too long, and usually you never did quite get anywhere worth getting to. He had met contacts like the Company man all over the world, and they usually bordered either on being a nuisance or being a hindrance, when infected with ambition or heightened ideas of self-worth. Going double was sometimes only the start of the problem. Napoleon was going to have to be careful. 

He rang the number he was given and settled down to wait, the Company man clattering back to the shipping office on the lower floor. Curled against the wall and the desk, keeping an eye and ear out for anything that sounded out of the ordinary, Napoleon propped the file up against his knee and opened it. Beyond the window, the sky was a bright, cloudless eggshell blue, the warm morning occasionally startled by the blast of a ship’s horn, crowded with noise from the pier, the rich continuous bass of human commerce. 

Napoleon had flicked through the first few pages by the time the line was picked up. “Solo.”

“Mister Sanders. It’s a pleasure to hear your voice again, sir,” Napoleon said insincerely. 

Sanders snorted. “Don’t strain yourself trying to be polite on my behalf. What’s going on, Solo? One minute you’re in New York, the next you’re in Istanbul.” 

“You clearly knew I was in Istanbul, sir. What with this helpful little file waiting for me in the office and all.” 

“We pay the MAH a hella lot of money to be our eyes in the region,” Sanders grunted. “I’d have been damned disappointed if they hadn’t picked you and your friends up: that Russian attack dog of Oleg’s is an honest-to-Gods _giant_. Waverly played ball eventually and fessed up to what you were up to. I had the MAH cough up all that they know about this so-called T.H.R.U.S.H. organisation.”

“You don’t seem particularly worried.”

“Vinciguerra, T.H.R.U.S.H., the Camorra, the Nazis… the world’s not short of nutballs who wanna make a buck outta watching the world burn,” Sanders said gruffly. “Ruin it for everyone else. More importantly, I’m disappointed, Solo. You should have checked in the moment you landed.”

“Nothing like striking when the iron’s hot, sir. I was making inquiries.”

“Whaddya find?”

“So far? About as much as the MAH already knows, it seems.” Napoleon flicked quickly through to the bottom of the file, then updated Sanders briskly on the last few days - minus his little adventure with Illya last night and this morning. 

Sanders grunted. “Yeah. The eggheads over in NASA are real upset over their plans going missing, and the President’s been leaning heavily on us for it. Elections are at stake, heads are gonna roll, the works.”

“It’s that serious?”

“Firstly, I don’t know what you think the problem is, Solo, but it’s not just the plans to a rocket ship that they stole, they _also_ stole the plans to a thermonuclear device,” Sanders drawled. “The ATV’s just half of it. The Atlas booster is pretty fuckin’ dangerous. Secondly, our Russian friends have been in a real panic for a month. Don’t know why, Waverly doesn’t know why, but I sure as hella want to _know_ why.” 

“Strange. Illya wasn’t impressed by the theft of the plans at all. Said that their rocket program was more advanced.”

“And it is. By our reasoning, there’s no reason for panic over across the Iron Curtain. But something’s happened. I wanna know what. Your too-tall Russian friend been funny lately?” 

Napoleon started to disagree, then he hesitated, blinking. Come to think of it… Illya _had_ been acting strange - _after_ he had gone off to meet his contact and come back. Not immediately after the incident at Kara’s. Quite possibly, Napoleon’s ego had just blindsided him to the obvious answer all over again. 

“I’m, ah, looking into it.”

“Good. You do that. Or break into their bureau, whatever works. Worst case scenario, they’ve lost a whole device, which, granted, would amuse the hell outta me, give me something to lord it over Oleg later. But we’ll settle for them having lost the Voskhod plans, or something similar. Word on the ground is, the Russian eggheads are being pushed to deliver something or other by early next year. If we can throw a spanner into the works, we wanna do it.” 

“And how far ahead are we?”

“Close but not close enough, apparently.” 

“You know,” Napoleon said, very mildly, “Since all this is about scientific achievement, setting foot on the Moon and all that, maybe we should… pool resources and do it together for mankind, and all that.” 

“Ha!” Sanders barked. “Thing is, I heard the President was thinking of something or other like that. Some sorta deal. But that’s none of our business yet, thank God - right now it’s all systems go, sabotage all ‘round. So. ‘Nother thing. This T.H.R.U.S.H. organisation, got Waverly and MAH in a bloody tizzy.”

“Apparently it’s the whole point of U.N.C.L.E.’s existence.” 

“Smells like fresh bullshit to me,” Sanders said sourly. “Sure. If they’re real, and if you can, get rid of them. We don’t want more Nazis in the world. But make sure you got your priorities straight.”

“Rocket ship plans, then the Russian rocket ship plans - _maybe_ \- and come home,” Napoleon summarised promptly. “Sir.”

“That’s it. Oh, and if it turns out that T.H.R.U.S.H. has been particularly enterprising, and has built some rocket base in the middle of them mountains? Call the MAH. They’ll take possession of any rocket or half-finished rocket or whatever for us. Try not to blow it up or worse, lose it to your Russian friend. Yeah?”

“Duly noted, sir.” 

“If we can get an edge in this race to the goddamned moon, the President wants it. I know, I know. Fuckin’ stupid, but there you go. He’s the boss and wants to do it for morale, or whatever it was. Now check back with me whenever you get something. I’m going to see if I can figure out what Oleg is up to.”

“Illya seemed only surprised when something called the ‘Korolyov Consultation’ was mentioned.”

“Yeah,” Sanders drawled. “Sergey Korolyov. Name not known to the general public. They’re dead scared that we wanna off him or something. Funny. He’s the head honcho of their rocket program. Don’t think there’s much chance of that being relevant. They probably keep a real close eye on him even when he’s having a shit.” 

Napoleon grimaced. “Maybe what was stolen was Korolyov’s notes?”

“If so, we want to get our hands on it. Now don’t fuck this up, Solo. My patience with you has been wearing goddamned thin lately.” 

Sanders hung up, and Napoleon listened to the dead line for a moment before he sighed, and hung up as well. He read the rest of the file slowly, committing it to memory, then he closed the file and got unhurriedly to his feet. The not-quite-agent shot Napoleon a dirty look on his way out that Napoleon ignored, and he spent some time walking slowly up and down the Salıpazarı Pier, looking at the sleek ships plying their trade up and down the Bosphorus. 

Somehow, Napoleon rather doubted that some stolen plans were the reason: Sanders didn’t even seem particularly worried, just jaded about politics as usual, and the Russians would probably have been about the same. Besides, Napoleon had seen Illya really twitchy and agitated before only a handful of times: when Napoleon had first tried to push his buttons, and when Illya had come to Napoleon’s hotel room to kill him. Other times, Illya was easily irritated and prone to violence, certainly - but he had to be pushed repeatedly. In combat situations, he was logical and collected under fire.

Sanders was probably right. The Russians _had_ lost something important, enough to light a fire under Illya’s tail. Important enough that Illya certainly hadn’t disclosed it to Napoleon - probably not even to Gaby. 

Napoleon glanced up at the sky, thoughtfully, then he sighed to himself, and looked around for a motorcycle to steal. It looked like he was going to have to pay a quiet visit to the KGB bureau after all.

vii.

Illya had woken up determined to be an adult about everything, but Solo’s insanity turned out to be contagious after all: despite Illya’s attempt to get out of the cramped bed, Solo had stretched, wished Illya ‘ _dobroye utro_ ’ with a filthy smirk and then they had ended up somehow on the floor, with Illya trying to kiss said smirk off Solo’s evil face. Solo had laughed his jackal’s laugh and smirked again and wormed his way down, and Illya had not had the self-control to push free, not when Solo got that wicked mouth of his on Illya’s cock again.

Two hours later, Solo was gone and Illya was washing his face for the second time in the tiny bathroom. He glared at himself in the mirror. Reddened marks from Solo’s teeth peppered his neck and chest, even his arm, and he was wearing a matching set of finger bruises on his other thigh. Illya pressed the heel of his palm viciously against the set inflicted on him the night before, and clenched his teeth achingly tight, then let out a long and wavering exhalation of exasperation. This was an embarrassment. _He_ was an embarrassment. Again.

Illya closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down, to breathe deeply. He curled his fingers around the cold rim of the wash basin and bowed his head, water dripping from his hair and from the tip of his nose, his chin, leaking down his neck and over his chest. He thought about shooting Solo, later today, perhaps, or at night, and again the faint hollow focus crept into his blood; he heard a faint tapping sound and realized that his fingers were tapping erratically against the sink, heard the harsh cadence of distant bellows and realized that it was his breath.

The jackal had gotten under Illya’s skin after all, like a parasite, and Illya had no one to blame but himself. No. Illya could not kill Solo. He had known this for a while. Sentiment had poisoned Illya in degrees, with tinctures of shared purpose, of grudging admiration, of Solo’s casual overtures of friendship. Sex had not been the catalyst or even the final straw; somewhere, somehow, Illya had unconsciously broken with Oleg and the KGB and his own country, all for an American thief. It was not even infatuation of any kind that Illya felt for Napoleon Solo, or the possessive protectiveness that he felt around Gaby Teller, but something perhaps more damning and far more elemental. The wolf chased the jackal to devour it. During the night Illya had, at one point, held the flesh of Solo’s neck in his teeth, felt the warmth of his skin and the salty pulse of his life, humming so close beneath, and a rush of near-sexual satiation had spent through him and stung his eyes. He would have held Solo like that for longer if he could. 

Slowly, Illya licked his lips, picking out the faint flash of his teeth in his reflection in the mirror. _The wolf chased the jackal to devour it._ He had bloodied Solo in the morning, left an imprint of teeth high on Solo’s shoulder. Now, Illya pressed his tongue to the edge of his teeth and chased the ghost of madness, until his fingers stopped trembling, until a flush climbed up from his neck. He ended up stroking himself off with angry impatience over the toilet, free hand clenched against the wall, and afterwards, Illya washed his hands a last time, slowly, dried himself off, then dressed and dragged himself out of the safehouse to face the unblinking sun. 

Illya would talk to Gaby, he decided. Waverly clearly had some sort of hold over Oleg. Although Illya balked at actually coming fully clean to U.N.C.L.E., perhaps he could hint at something or other that would either get Solo pulled off the case or some sort of deal to be struck. The Great Game was rarely about murder, after all. Most of the time, it was an information game, if played with the fate of countries and human lives. There had to be another way. 

The tracker placed Gaby near the Taksim Gezi Park, where she was fairly safe by herself. Looming hotels bordered the outlying zone of the park, which was crowded with tourists admiring the water features and enjoying the neat green shapes cut against stone. Illya avoided the sheep, keeping to himself and cutting across the park, through to a street a block away from the hotel belt. He quickly spotted Gaby standing beside a phone box, looking at something in her palm, shifting her weight from one foot to another, jaw clenched, and Illya waited for a long moment before swallowing a sigh and walking over.

“Now what has happened?” 

Gaby actually flinched. “Illya! I didn’t see you.” 

“Naturally,” Illya said dryly. A quick look around indicated that they were likely alone. “By the way,” he added, more quietly, “If you want to carry gun in your bag then you should place it with grip facing forward. So you can draw it quickly, yes?” 

“I don’t even know how to use it,” Gaby said defensively.

“Solo didn’t show you?”

“He just mentioned how to work the safety.” 

Illya grunted. That figured. “Typical.”

“He’s not a killer, that’s why.”

“To contrary,” Illya corrected, “He _is_ a killer. He was soldier, then thief, then spy. All three of those ‘professions’ involved killing.” 

“But he tries to avoid it, as much as possible.” Gaby shot back. “And he didn’t kill anyone when he was a thief, according to Waverly’s files.” 

True. But Illya didn’t quite feel like having this argument right now. “I’ll show you, when we have time and place,” he offered gruffly. “So. Something happened?”

“Not… really,” Gaby hedged, then she looked down at her palm again, and sighed. “I just wanted to be helpful.” 

“Oh?”

“Kara’s alive. She found me and gave me a phone number, but she was in a hurry to leave the country, I think, so she didn’t explain. I tried to call it but,” Gaby blushed a little, “I don’t speak Turkish.”

“At least you called it from a payphone,” Illya said, a little comfortingly. “Did she say what number it was?”

“No. I think it was for Solo.” Gaby ducked her head. “I hope I haven’t ruined something. I shouldn’t have assumed. I mean. I thought that Solo didn’t speak Turkish either.”

If the number was from Kara, who had somehow escaped death and had then gone to the trouble of finding Solo/Gaby instead of going to ground, then it was probably a message from the Mossad to the CIA. Which was promising. “So you rang the number. Then?”

“A man picked up. He spoke in Turkish. I hung up.” 

“Good,” Illya decided. Gaby had decent instincts, at least: she hadn’t tried to speak, which might’ve made whoever it was suspicious if she had spoken in English. “Let me try.” 

Illya hadn’t been sure what to expect. Another pass phrase, perhaps? He hoped not. The phone rang for a while, as Illya leaned against the side of the phone box, tucked a little awkwardly against the frame due to his height, and just as he was about to hang up and feed the phone more coins, someone picked up. 

“ _Merhaba_ ,” said a man with a gruff voice. His Turkish was native, by the sound of it, and brisk. “Who is this?”

“A friend gave me this number,” Illya replied in kind, if less briskly; his Turkish was a little out of practice, even after the past few days. 

“Which friend?” 

“Kara.” 

“Ah.” The man drew out the breath. _Ah-h-h._ “What do you need, friend?” 

“What can you do?” 

“Kara did not tell you?”

“She was in a rush.” 

There was a long, wary pause, but Illya forced himself to stay silent. If he spoke, it would only betray nervousness. “I provide help,” the man said finally, if curtly, “To those who find hospitals very inconvenient.” 

A black market doctor. 

Oleg’s words. 

_He is, however, not a well man, and must be found_.

A link in the chain. Finally. Illya’s free hand tapped against his thigh, but he somehow managed to find the will to stay calm. “Kara has been very thoughtful then. A friend of mine needs help of such a sort.”

“How urgent is it?”

“A disease is killing him slowly,” Illya extrapolated, trying to remember details about Korolyev’s medical condition - it had been kept mostly quiet by the KGB. “Hospitals are inconvenient. It would be good if we could have a supplier.” 

There was another, longer pause, then the doctor said, “I cannot promise miracles.”

“We are not looking for miracles. Only an easier way to die slowly.” 

“Then come to this address.” The doctor rattled off a residential location. “Tonight. Don’t be followed.” 

“Thank you.”

“If you see Kara again,” the doctor said shortly, “Tell her the debt is paid.”

Illya hung up slowly, taking in a slow breath, and tensed up as he felt a hand press against his elbow. It was Gaby, her eyes wide and concerned. “What was all that? Are you all right?” 

No, Illya decided - he could not tell Gaby. Not yet. “A Mossad contact, I think,” he lied, struggling for calm. “I have a meeting with him.”

“You? Shouldn’t it be Solo?”

“Solo doesn’t speak Turkish.” Actually, Illya was fairly sure that Solo _did_ speak Turkish, though not very well, but enough to do illegal business in Istanbul, at least. “If he shows up, tell him that the appointment is at this address tomorrow morning.” He gave Gaby a different address - at most, perhaps they’d blame it on a mistake of memory, later.

“Why would Kara give Solo a contact who doesn’t speak English?”

Illya shrugged. “Why does the Mossad do anything? Besides, she was in a hurry, no?” 

Gaby studied Illya oddly for a moment, then she nodded. “All right. Anything else you’ll like to tell me?”

“No,” Illya decided, and let out a thin breath. “No.”


	10. Chapter 10

VIII.

Napoleon returned to the Grand Hotel des Londres just in time for supper, having spent a fruitless day poking quietly around the KGB bureau, then the Russian Embassy. Gaby ordered room service as Napoleon gratefully got cleaned up and into a dressing gown, then he browsed through the selection of cold meats with avaricious pleasure when it arrived. There was even a decent-smelling beef bourguignon and a shrimp cocktail for an appetiser.

Gaby didn’t eat, perched in an armchair and reading avidly through the CIA folder Napoleon had passed her. “I met Kara today,” she said, as she turned a page.

“Oh?” Napoleon smiled. “I thought she would’ve escaped.”

“She gave me a phone number. I tried calling it, but whoever it was at the end spoke Turkish, so I didn’t say anything. Illya had to take over.” 

Now _that_ got Napoleon’s attention away from the shrimp. “What was the number?”

Gaby dutifully recited a phone number, if stumblingly. “I think that was right,” she said doubtfully. “Also, Illya said he managed to get whoever it was to agree to an appointment. It’s tomorrow morning, at this address.” She related the address as well.

Napoleon frowned. “Did you remember that correctly? Both the number and the address?”

Gaby bristled. “Of course. I wrote it down while it was still fresh in my mind. Illya had wandered off by then, though, so we didn’t have tea.”

“Did he seem… upset to you?”

“No… wait! Yes, he seemed like he was thinking about something. He was tense.” Gaby narrowed her eyes. “Did you annoy him again?” 

Napoleon looked glumly at his supper. It was going to have to wait after all. “Don’t stay up.” 

“Where are you going? What happened to Illya?” 

“The number that Kara gave you belongs to someone I know,” Napoleon said, as he got up from the table, “And he wouldn’t work from anywhere at that address - it’s too upper class. It’ll be Tarlabaşı or somewhere similar.”

“Maybe something’s changed about your friend?” Gaby asked doubtfully, but she was scowling now. “Illya lied to me? What’s going on?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Napoleon hesitated in the doorway to the bedroom. “Kara found you here? That’s not ideal. If she could find out, others can find out.” He had been fairly sure that they hadn’t been followed from the Hilton Istanbul-

“I’ll be fine,” Gaby assured him. “I’ve been here for _hours_ and nothing’s happened. Just go and do what you have to.” 

Napoleon hesitated for a moment longer, then he marched over to Gaby’s bag, left at the dresser, and fished the Walther out from within it. Heading back to Gaby, he wrapped her hands around the grip. “Remember the safety? Good. All right. If you have to fire the gun… arms straight. Upright - yes, like that. Iron sights are here, but don’t bother to go for marksmanship points. Two shots in the chest if you can, then if it’s safe, go close and get an insurance shot through the head. No, lock your wrists. Arms straight. Elbows locked too, like so. Firm grip. Firmer. Deep breaths. And don’t point it anyone you aren’t prepared to shoot.”

“Just go,” Gaby told him, her jaw set, even as she decocked the gun. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Don’t let anyone who isn’t me into the room until I’m back. Not even room service,” Napoleon decided. “And don’t check the door if someone knocks.” Using eyeholes was a great way to ensure that you got shot by an enemy, in Napoleon’s experience: the faint darkening of the glass was a clear hint to anyone standing beyond the door that someone was right behind it. 

Gaby stared at him for a long moment, then she turned back to her file. “Just go,” she told him again firmly, and even if it was just a show of confidence to reassure him, Napoleon appreciated the sentiment.

“Wait,” Gaby said suddenly, when Napoleon was dressed again, in his nondescript black shirt, jacket and trousers and at the door. “Don’t kill him. Illya, that is.” 

“Whatever brought this on?” 

“It’s just…” Gaby hesitated. “He did seem upset about something.”

“Are you asking me this,” Napoleon inquired wryly, “As a friend, or as my handler?”

“Can’t it be both?” 

“All right, Gaby,” Napoleon said gently. “But I doubt it’ll get to that stage.” 

Outside, he wasn’t so sure. Napoleon might have sucked Illya’s cock and slept in his bed, but he hadn’t ever forgotten how dangerous Illya was. There was something broken inside Illya, a wound that had festered over the years, its symptoms a murderous and berserk rage that flashed hot when provoked. Napoleon had met people like Illya here and there, particularly when he had been a soldier. They tended to be poisonous, hard-drinking men with a poor trigger between zero and murder, and eventually destroyed everyone around them, even their loved ones. At least Illya seemed different. Maybe.

The Bone Doctor’s clinic was in Tarlabaşı, Beyoğlu, under one of the many buildings that had been left vacant when the district once known as Pera had been ‘Turkified’, with foreign residents leaving the area in droves. The influx of immigrants into industrialising Istanbul had flowed into the vacancy, like water displacing water, into the abandoned buildings, to the low rent flats; as Napoleon left his stolen scooter quietly in an alley, he could see prostitutes leaning out from second-storey windows in the adjacent back streets, occasionally calling out to passers-by. Tarlabaşı was rather less quiet now than Napoleon remembered: years ago, it had simply stood empty, but for the few families still clinging to their homes. But it was an ugly sort of life.

Where Napoleon stood, the streets were narrow and dark, and cluttered with the occasional wet mound of stinking refuse, some waist-high. Strings of laundry had been suspended above his head, though it was late enough that Napoleon could not make out their colours, the long, narrow windows mostly shuttered and dark. He walked briskly, keeping his stride purposeful, as though he was on his way somewhere important, and he kept his step quiet, and stayed in the deep shadows. 

It took Napoleon a few wrong turns before he finally found the side street he was looking for, and from there, the red door. The Bone Doctor’s clinic was just as he remembered: the ground floor windows boarded closed, the upper windows barred with iron grille and heavily curtained. Through the years, the boards had been changed: some were yellow stained, some looked new, but Napoleon drew his pistol, quietly, and tried the door as noiselessly as he could.

As he thought, it was open and unlocked. A bad sign. Napoleon let himself in, pushing the door open slowly and keeping himself curled against the frame, not behind the door, and when he saw that the corridor beyond was clear, he stepped through, keeping against the wall instead of in the centre of the floor, where the floorboards might creak and betray his presence. He closed the door behind him as well, toeing it closed slowly, and then padded noiselessly through the darkened corridor, wary of his step.

Somewhere below his feet, there was a muffled, hoarse scream. A man’s.

Napoleon took in a slow breath. The corridor opened into a seemingly vacant floor. What had once been some family’s loved house, with a drawing room, a kitchen and a study, was now stripped bare and empty, the bright yellow paint long faded dull, the floorboards dusty and scratched. 

There was another scream, as Napoleon went past the kitchen to the back of the house, where the storage room was. The door was open, a gaping maw leading down a narrow set of steps into the dark. Napoleon breathed in, slow, then he crept down the steps. Quietly. Methodically. The basement room was small, and normally would look empty. The false wall had been rolled back, however, flooding part of the empty room with a sharp gash of clinically bright light. Beyond was the surgery chamber, harshly lit. 

Someone was strapped to the dentist’s chair.

viii.

Illya was wavering between the bone saw and the scalpel when he heard Solo say, very mildly, “I suppose there’s a good explanation for all this?”

He turned sharply on his heel, cursing himself for not having picked up Solo creeping up on him. Strapped into the chair, the doctor gasped, “ _Sen_!” 

Solo was armed, though his gun was pointed at the floor. Illya kept his feet flat on the ground, ready to dive away from the door if necessary, though he kept his own hands away from his holster. “Go away. You are not needed here.”

“Honestly,” Solo sighed, though he holstered his gun and stepped forward, leaning his shoulder against the door frame and folding his arms. “What part of ‘we are meant to be partners’ don’t you quite understand? By the way, I’m not entirely sure that I like you poking holes into my associates.”

“This man is a ‘bone doctor’,” Illya growled, gesturing at the bloodied man strapped in the chair. He had hamstrung the man and broken two fingers, but hadn’t quite moved on from there as yet - the doctor was proving surprisingly resilient. “Not only a black market doctor, but someone who will perform ‘revenge’ procedures on contract as well. No?”

“Yes, I know that,” Solo said mildly. “Hello, Doktor. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” 

“ _Beyfendi_!” the doctor begged. “ _Imdat_!” 

“Care to explain why you’ve been attacking my contacts?” Solo asked, ignoring the doctor. “Mustafa here is, admittedly, everything you say that he is-“

“Then why do you know him?”

“I make it my business to know anyone of importance in an area before I operate there,” Solo raised his eyebrows. “A black market doctor would be just such a person. Glass houses, Illya. The KGB’s done its share of ‘revenge’ procedures and more. You seem to be in the middle of one.” 

Illya’s hand clenched tight on the handle of the bone saw, white-knuckled, as he heard the hollow thrum of maddening focus. “Illya,” he heard dimly, then closer up, then fingers were gently prying his hand off the saw, and pulling just as gently at his elbow. Illya allowed himself to be led, fighting to even his breath, and then they were out of the surgery room, at the foot of the stair up. 

“Illya,” Solo said gently, petting up and down Illya’s arms, as though trying to soothe him. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Photographs,” Illya slurred, his accent thickened. He had seen the book of photographs, upstairs, in the doctor’s real study. He remembered a white rage, followed, quite closely, by a rare, cold anger. 

“Well, yes,” Solo said, just as gently. “I know about those. You’re KGB, Illya. You’re hardly…” Solo trailed off, looking into Illya’s eyes, the jackal taking his measure, sniffing at the edges, then Solo hummed softly. “Ah. Taking your father to the gulag was not the only thing that they did to him, was it?”

Illya braced for temper, but all he felt now that his focus was dimming was weariness. He would allow himself to be soothed. “Like you said,” Illya said flatly. “The KGB has done its share of ‘revenge’ procedures.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Solo said softly, though he wasn’t, not really, or at least, Illya could not tell. The cadence of Solo’s voice was so calming. 

“He lasted three years in the gulag with no tongue and one hand,” Illya said shortly, then he shuddered and twisted out of Solo’s grip, hating his loose tongue. He had not meant to say that. He had nearly told Solo the rest: of having received a box of ice in the post, weeks after his father had disappeared along with other Stalin loyalists, of the bloody trophies inside, the watch still attached to the wrist. His mother had died that day - her body had just taken a few more years to follow suit. 

As to Illya - his fingers curled, trembling. “I’m sorry to hear that. But you’re going to have to calm down,” Solo was still saying. “All right? Kara must have pointed us this way for a reason. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“Fine,” Illya said grudgingly, after a long silence. 

“All right now?”

“No.”

“Want to take a walk?”

“No.” 

“Can you at least behave while I talk to the doktor?”

“… yes,” Illya said reluctantly. Perhaps Solo would have better luck. 

Illya was calmer by the time Solo strolled back into the surgery room, though Illya stayed in the doorway, hands clenched into his arms. Doctor Mustafa looked wildly between them both, occasionally twisting against his bonds, pale with pain and fear. 

“You,” Mustafa told Solo, in Turkish. “I remember you.”

“Yes, Doktor.” Solo’s Turkish was indeed poor, but seemingly semi-conversational. “I had problems…” He hesitated, trying to find the word. “Gunshot. In the side. You have good memory.”

“I don’t come across many Americans in this work,” Mustafa said unsteadily, with a brittle smile. “It was a favor for Kara. You remember Kara, yes? We are all still friends?”

“Kara asked me to talk to you,” Solo said, with a charmingly urbane smile. “I’m not sure why. My friend is - too fast? No. Too _excited_.” 

“Why would Kara do that?” Mustafa asked, looking bewildered. “I have not spoken to her in over a year. And you are not hurt.” 

“Do you know this… Hotel Seranda? T.H.R.U.S.H.? Turdus?” 

Mustafa shook his head in turns, looking increasingly confused. It wasn’t feigned, Illya decided bitterly. This was a dead end. 

“Anything odd in the past month?” 

“I can’t describe my clients - you must understand!” Mustafa said desperately, straining against his bonds. “You would know! My clients are very dangerous! They will kill me!”

“Then we are… stalled,” Solo said sadly. “Once you saved my life. My friend here, however, will kill you if you… not help. So. Your choice.”

Mustafa licked his lips, pale, his hands clenching. “There was… there was one strange thing,” he said finally. “The Black Hand. Two weeks ago they put in an large order for… unusual drugs. Angiotensin receptor blockers. And they asked if I could get my hands on a Scribner shunt.”

“And did you?”

“Those machines are only in America! And they weigh half a ton.”

“What are they for?”

Mustafa shrugged. “Disorders of the kidneys. But it was strange. Why come to me?” 

“The blockers,” Illya said flatly. “Did you find and deliver those?”

“Yes,” Mustafa said nervously. “You do not refuse the Black Hand.”

“Pack of international thieves,” Solo switched to English. “Quite notorious. They’re also sometimes mercenaries. Strange, though. Their specialty is high profile kidnappings. They usually target the children of the very rich.”

“Where did you deliver the blockers to?” Illya demanded, his hands curling tighter, ignoring how Solo stared at him with surprise. 

“I can’t-“ Mustafa began, then he screamed, as Illya drew his own Walther, cocked the gun and fired in one motion, shattering the doctor’s kneecap. “All right! All right,” Mustafa sobbed, and choked out an address. It was in a neighbouring area, still in Beyoğlu. Good. 

Illya turned to go, but Solo was quick, he darted in front of him, hands up. Illya pushed past, growling, and shook off Solo’s hand as Solo grabbed for his elbow. “Why don’t you clean up here?” Illya hissed, as he reached the stairs, but Solo was studying him again, his expression calculating. 

“Your people didn’t lose a set of plans or even a device,” Solo said finally, slowly. “They lost _Korolyov_ himself, didn’t they?” 

This was the problem with Solo, Illya decided, and probably why the man had been so successful in the CIA. His instincts were phenomenal. “Stay out of my way.” 

“Look,” Solo said firmly. “Let me help you. I want the plans, you don’t want the plans. You want Korolyov - Sanders thinks that Korolyov is still in Moscow. No foul.”

“Up until you tell him otherwise.”

“So far I don’t see why I have to. My instructions involve retrieving the ATV plans, and maybe some stolen Russian plans or a device, both of which clearly don’t exist at this stage.” 

Illya tightened his grip on his pistol. He knew he shouldn’t trust Solo. The man was a liar and a thief, and a jackal would always value its own hide more than any other. 

But it _was_ true. Solo had no real killing instinct, for all that he had killed before. Illya could not kill Solo, at least not like this, not in cold blood, and he knew now the truth of the rest of that equation in his bones, in the shared breath between them: even as he could not kill Solo, Solo could not - would not - kill him. They were at an impasse. 

Slowly, dazedly, Illya decocked and holstered his pistol. 

Solo visibly relaxed. “Okay. Just wait for me on the top floor. I’m going to cut the doktor loose.”

“Let him bleed out.”

“Sadly, I think Kara will be rather annoyed if he were to die, so I think we should at least give the doktor some sort of fighting chance. Be right up.” 

Solo reappeared in the upstairs living room within minutes, looking unruffled, and Illya scowled as Solo started to head past him. Outside, the air seemed heavy, and stank, and they closed the door behind them and headed out towards the wider adjoining street - or tried to. Three men with rifles stood on the left end of the wide street, and as Illya glanced behind him with his peripheral vision, he saw another two slip out of side alleys, bracketing them in. 

Solo reacted first - he ducked quickly back around the street corner, flattening himself against a doorway and drawing his pistol. Illya didn’t bother to hide - he had drawn, cocked his gun and dived, back first against the street, firing - one shot went wide, but the rest found their mark, downing the first man, then the other. Solo was shooting around the corner, ducking hurriedly away when machine gun fire stitched a line up against the opposite house and shattered windows. Illya scrambled to his feet, also ducking into a doorway, the air now sharp with the stink of gunpowder, thinned by adrenaline, discipline evening his breath as Illya looked around carefully, trying to spot snipers or worse. The narrow streets and unevenly built terraced flats were giving them a slight advantage, but if there were more armed enemies out there, then they were pinned, and-

There was the faint sound of an accelerating engine roar, then a tiny black Citroën swerved wildly out from the street behind them, headlights blindingly bright in the narrow street, bumping over one of the bodies. Illya raised his gun, only to flinch as Solo darted across, barrelling into him and pinning his gun arm to his belly, pressing Illya to the door. Seconds later, Illya understood. 

It was Gaby, one hand clenched on the wheel, the other on the stick. “Get in,” she snapped.

They piled gratefully into the cramped back of the car, and Gaby reversed, the car jolting over the body again, then making a sharp backwards turn into an adjoining street. “Not that I’m not grateful that you’re here,” Solo said breathlessly, “But _why_ are you here?”

“Waverly called the room,” Gaby said tightly, as she made another sharp turn. “Your friend Sanders talked to the Mossad after you reported in today. And they said that Kara disappeared on them five years ago.”


	11. Chapter 11

IX.

“We have unfinished business,” Illya said, when they finally slowed down, on the outskirts of the district, within sight of Taksim Square. “Let me and Solo out here.”

“Are you crazy?” Gaby demanded incredulously, even as Napoleon hid a grin. It looked like Illya had finally started to understand the concept of ‘teamwork’. “The district’s probably full of gunmen!” 

“Yes,” Illya said impatiently, “But we will not be caught again.”

“Shouldn’t you wait until the morning?” 

“Prefer not to,” Illya shot back, stubborn as ever. “Urgent business.” 

“Maybe it’s another trap,” Gaby argued. “A second one. In case you sprung the first one involving the doktor.”

“I think not,” Illya said flatly. “Let us out here.” 

“I have a better idea,” Napoleon cut in, as Gaby’s jaw set stubbornly. “Take a left turn back here. Then the next right. We’ll go cruising near the address in question. If it’s crawling with gunmen, we can come back in the morning. All right?”

“… Fine,” Gaby said grumpily. “So we go from the two of you asking to get shot to _all_ of us running the risk of getting shot.”

“Fine,” Illya echoed, then added gruffly, “Also you drive too fast to get shot. Like a madwoman.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gaby said tartly.

“It _was_ a compliment.”

“… keep heading straight for a bit until I tell you. Keep left,” Napoleon instructed, even as he swallowed another grin. “Gaby, you make a great getaway driver. In another life you would have been an invaluable member of a re-acquisition team.”

“He means thief,” Illya muttered.

“Thank you, Napoleon. Now _that_ is what a compliment sounds like, Illya. I hope that you’re taking notes.” 

They took a roundabout way towards Black Hands territory, with Napoleon and Illya studying every shadow for enemies. There were none. Beyoğlu was, as Napoleon had suspected, far too large to blanket with a dragnet. Anyone reasonable would have fallen back to regroup.

“So this Kara,” Illya said suddenly, as Napoleon eyed some possible lookout posts, “She was turned?”

“We don’t know that,” Napoleon said idly, though he rather doubted it. He had seen scenarios like this far too often. The Great Game was unforgiving, particularly to women, like far too much of the rest of the world. “Maybe she went native.”

“She gives Gaby a number and then we get shot at by people with machine guns.”

“She also didn’t shoot Gaby in the hotel.” 

“Broad daylight. Difficult procedure.”

“Not for Mossad.”

Illya grunted. It was Gaby who added, “Sanders told Waverly that Kara had dropped off contact. Originally the Mossad thought that someone had killed her, or some sort of accident had occurred. But then they began to think that she’d gone rogue. Operating her own network. Going mercenary.” 

“Any reason specified?” Napoleon asked thoughtfully. 

“No. They never managed to catch her.” 

“Should have cleared the contact with Sanders first,” Illya told Napoleon. 

“Why? I met her before I became a CIA agent. And besides, I always had an inkling that she was going to go native. She was _too_ convincing as a fence.” Napoleon sighed. “That’s the problem with being a regional contact. You get ambitious, there’s nowhere to go, and then-“

“And then you sell out your friends to evil organisations?” Illya growled.

“It _does_ seem to have escalated rather abruptly, hasn’t it?” 

“Still,” Illya said sourly. “It _is_ too complicated. If she wanted us dead she could have arranged it better. Picked us off when we were alone. Maybe. And the doktor was not lying. He had not spoken to Kara in a year. And he was not lying about the blockers either.”

“What blockers?” Gaby asked. 

Napoleon glanced at Illya, who clenched his jaw, and then, to Napoleon’s surprise, Illya volunteered, “T.H.R.U.S.H. may have contracted the Black Hand to acquire Russian scientist. He is not a well man. The doktor supplied some drugs to the kidnappers. Since the scientist is still with the kidnappers I presume payment not yet processed.”

“Also,” Napoleon added, “We’d rather you didn’t mention this scientist to Waverly.”

It was Illya’s turn to look at Napoleon with surprise. “Oh?” Gaby asked. 

“There might be a bit of a conflict of interest were Waverly to natter on about it to Sanders, just saying, and it might put all three of us in a rather awkward position.” 

“…Ah.” Gaby sighed. “The space race.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, _I_ don’t want to see any more people get shot, especially for a stupid reason,” Gaby assured them both. “I’ll keep it from Waverly.”

“Thank you,” Illya murmured, and Gaby flashed him a wan smile in the mirror.

“As far as I’m concerned, we’re in this together, Illya.”

That was a rather naive way of looking at things, but since Illya didn’t comment, Napoleon decided not to. They crept along narrow streets, seeing less and less traffic, until, as they slowly rounded a corner, there was the sudden crack of gunfire, at least two blocks away. It was loud in the silence of the night, and Napoleon guessed that this was how Gaby had found them. 

“Are we close?” Illya asked Napoleon quietly.

“Close enough for that to be suspicious, yes.”

Illya nodded. “All right. We get out here. Gaby-“

“Drive around the block?” Gaby asked, though she looked worried, not resigned.

“Lock the doors when you're driving and be careful. You’re our way out - Plan A.” Napoleon advised her. “If it gets too hot, though, just leave. Illya and I will work out a Plan B.” 

“I brought a bag of your things in the front seat,” Gaby told Napoleon. “It had a lot of guns in it. I thought it might be relevant.” 

“You,” Napoleon said, very seriously, as Illya reached over to grab the duffel bag in question, “Are a _treasure_.”

They sorted through the bag quietly as Gaby drove off. “Did you just steal the plane’s entire armory?” Illya asked, as he held up a grenade. 

“I didn’t take the rocket launchers.”

“Probably because they could not fit in the bag?”

“You’ve got me there.” Napoleon grinned. Illya shook his head slowly.

“How good are you with this?” Illya had pocketed the grenade, and had hauled out a sniper rifle with an attached scope, sling and wooden stock. 

“Haven’t seen that model before.” That had been why Napoleon had chosen to ‘acquire’ it from the plane - he had been curious.

“Dragunov SVD. It’s new. Automatic. Based on Kalashnikov.” Illya handed it over. “7.62mm round. Lower recoil. Now is most accurate rifle in the world. If its owner can use it.” 

Napoleon weighed it in his hands, then nodded. “I’ll be fine. There was a Starlight scope in there as well, I think?” 

Illya handed it over. It was a heavy, clunky device which fitted a little awkwardly onto the Dragunov, and Napoleon handled the rifle clumsily. Illya noticed, frowning. “Can you use it or not?”

“I can, it’s just a rather longer model than what I’m used to. But we can swap if you prefer.” Napoleon didn’t particularly have an ego where wetwork was concerned: although his personal preference was to stay as far away from it as possible.

“Will need cover. Probably. If we are going to be getting into middle of gang war.” Illya had selected the M16 for himself, if with a grimace, stuffing spare magazines into his pockets and then zipping up the bag and slinging it over his back. “Now. Try not to shoot me. And try not to shoot Korolyov.” 

“I don’t know what he looks like.”

“He will probably be only unarmed party,” Illya said, which was a sort of brutally logical reasoning that Napoleon could not immediately dispute but which was also, at the same time, distinctly unhelpful. Illya started away briskly before he could ask more questions, however, and so resigned, Napoleon followed at his heel, watching their back. The gunfire was scattered now, as though there were pockets of resistance around a central whole. An multi-frontal assault on the Black Hands’ base, perhaps. 

“Coincidence?” Napoleon murmured, to himself. 

Illya heard. “I think this Kara wanted to know position of Korolyov. So she sent you to talk to the doktor and tried also some other way. Her other way was faster. So she sent people to kill you.”

“Sadly logical. But it also means that the Black Hand must have held out for fairly long now, if she sent people after us and forces after the Black Hand at the same time.”

“Good. If they are holding out, it means Korolyov should still be there. And also. He is probably still alive.” 

“That’s a bit of a leap of logic.”

“The Black Hand are thieves, for all that they steal people. A thief’s home is full of escape routes, no? If they are fighting it out, then they must be confident.” 

“I wouldn’t always rule out stupidity.”

“People who can steal Korolyov out from Moscow are not stupid. Here. We are close enough. You cover me from there.” Illya pointed at a fire escape that led up towards the flat roof of a nearby row of terraced flats. “Try not to get yourself shot, Cowboy.” 

“Practice what you preach, Peril.”

ix.

Illya got rid of the first pocket of resistance briskly. Like those who had tried to corral Illya and Solo outside the bone doctor’s house, the gunmen were also carrying M16s, and seemed more professional than the Black Hand, at least in the art of murder. They hadn’t, however, been expecting a sudden attack from the back, and Illya dispatched them with ease.

The Black Hand proved more intractable. They were entrenched behind a firing position on their wall, facing outwards from their inner walled compound. As Illya reloaded, he heard a faint, loud crack, then a yell from the wall and a _thump_ \- Solo was certainly more than ‘fine’ with a proper rifle.

Still, it wasn’t as though Illya had the time to hang around slowly exchanging shots with a nested set of guards. He closed his hand around the grenade, pulled the pin with his teeth and estimated trajectory for a second before tossing it. Seconds later, there was a very precise explosion, just beyond the wall, and screams. Illya ran across in the crabbed run taught to him when he was in Special Forces, to make himself a smaller target, and reached the side door that the nested sentries had been defending. He shot the lock off and kicked the door open, even as, above him, one of the screams was abruptly cut short. 

Through the side door were two of the Black Hand, still slowing to a halt, likely reinforcements from the squat-looking block of flats within the compound, and Illya fired from the hip without slowing down, the M16 bucking in his grip, hot shells tinkling out. Illya paused to reload, breathing in cordite and the sudden stench of voiding bowels from the dying men, and stepped over their bodies, wary of the other nests. There were two. One was high and to his left: four men, two dead, one firing over the wall, the other turning towards Illya, M16 raised, then suddenly jerking backwards, as though punched in the chest by some unseen force. On the other side was a protracted battle, the sentries ignoring Illya, and he left them to it, heading briskly towards the flats. 

Above him, from the sentry nest, there was another, final scream. If the Black Hands were clever, they would’ve started their escape strategy by now, but no one was coming out of the block, which meant that there was, very likely, another exit. As Illya had suspected. He’d have to go in and investigate. Chances were, it’d be a tunnel leading out, probably dug under one or two blocks. 

As Illya headed briskly towards the first door that he could see in the blocks, the final sentry nest went silent: a quick glance showed only bodies, slumped, one still struggling weakly. Illya dropped the heavy, bulky bag of weaponry and tried the door - it was unlocked, and a careful pull with no resistance indicated it wasn’t trapped. He stepped through into the dark, careful of tripwires, his eyes adjusting to the gloom; he could smell faint, old, oily cooking scents and the sweaty locker room scent of far too many men living together in one space. It was a good sign. The block was inhabited, which meant it probably wasn’t full of mines. 

Any underground exit would probably be dug from a cellar or a basement. Why waste effort, after all? Illya checked what looked like a kitchen, then a storeroom, and was padding over to the back of the first block when there was a sudden, muffled whistling artillery shrill, then a loud _thump_ from upstairs. 

Some crazy bastard had fired a rocket launcher. 

The explosion was immediate and obvious. The roof of what had been a living room to Illya’s right ripped apart, as though hollowed out by some invisible God, and washed through with fire and thickening smoke. There were screams from upstairs even as Illya staggered away, having been slapped into the wall from the impact, dazed, and what if the Black Hand _hadn’t_ had an exit strategy? What if Korolyov was upstairs? 

The fire was _voracious_. The rocket had hit something - fuel, perhaps, or a firearms storage; Illya backed away towards the kitchen, grabbing a stinking yellowed hand towel from the sink and pressing it over his mouth, then blindly making his way towards the stairs. He could hear windows breaking - maybe people were escaping outside - but there were still desperate cries, somewhere above, and the stairs were old and wooden and creaking alarmingly and the smoke was pouring out everywhere, as though blown from some gigantic bellows. 

Illya tripped over a body in the first room that he checked. Pain shot up from his knees and against his palms but he scrambled around, turning the man over onto his front. It wasn’t Korolyov. Coughing, hauling himself blindly to his feet, Illya’s eyes watered, and he knew he should get out, that it was too late now. 

Someone, close by, was burning to death. The screams were horrific, climbing higher and higher until it was no longer clear whether the person dying was male or female-

Illya headed back for the stairs, but in the thick haze missed the first step and tumbled; brittle wood splintered under his weight and knocked the breath from him and he took in a lungful of smoke; coughing, dizzy and dazed, he tried to struggle to his feet and only seemed able to crawl a few inches. At least, prone on the ground, he was out of the thick bank of smoke just overhead, if for now. He struggled for an inch more, digging his nails into the old floorboards, but he couldn’t get up. The world was getting hellishly hot, and Illya could smell hair starting to singe and cook. Dully, he realized it was coming from him. 

Then hands clenched tight on his jacket and he was being hauled, up to his feet, his arm slung around a broad set of shoulders. The stumble to the door was a dazed rush, like a supreme feat of willpower; Illya’s eyes were watering, still blinded, until the ground was suddenly coming up to meet him. Grass. The compound. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the night sky, gulping gratefully and hungrily for air. Someone beside him was coughing, coughing and coughing and then laughing, a jackal’s wild and unrepentant laughter. 

It was Solo. Of course it was Solo.

“Jesus Christ,” Solo gasped, as he pulled a rag away from his mouth and tossed it aside, lying on his flank. “You’re a goddamned _lunatic_ , Peril.” 

Illya growled and scrambled up onto his elbows instead and shoved Solo down onto his back, and he bit Solo hard on his neck, above his jacket collar, felt Solo jerk under him with surprise and then groan. Long fingers tugged him up, up, and Illya pressed the flecks of Solo’s blood on his tongue between them, licked it between Solo’s teeth, and this time Solo’s groan shook through him in a tremor, hands clenching tight over Illya’s shoulders. 

“Probably not the best time,” Solo noted, when they broke for air, though he was smirking again. Always, with that smirk. Illya swallowed the hot edge of gritty lust that seemed to cut his breath away and nodded curtly, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. 

They stumbled out of the compound, blackened, sooty, lightly cooked, and into the street, and Illya watched bleakly as the little black Citroën pulled up next to them. He had failed. For some crazy reason, T.H.R.U.S.H. had decided to murder the world’s foremost rocket scientist instead of sending in a strike team. 

“All in one piece?” Gaby asked, as they got into the back.

“Lightly grilled, is all.” Solo said. 

“They shot a rocket into the building,” Illya began.

“I know. After they hauled out somebody from another building down the street with a bag over his head,” Gaby said briskly. “Secret exit, maybe? Most of them left after that. Sped off, actually.”

“Wait,” Illya blinked. “What?”

“You said so yourself,” Solo pointed out. “Thieves like to have exit options.” 

Illya rubbed a hand slowly over his face, to hide his sheer relief. The Black Hand had just been ruthless then. It had sacrificed some of its number in an attempt to pin down T.H.R.U.S.H. while some others had tried to make a getaway. “T.H.R.U.S.H. must have intercepted the Black Hand and Korolyov. Once they had Korolyov there was no need to stay. And then they fired a rocket into the Black Hand base as a final statement.”

“Rather dramatic for a statement,” Solo said. The Citroën was turning down a street, but Illya could still see the glow from the burning building in its rear view mirrors. “Did you see which direction they were going in?”

“No use,” Illya leaned back against the back seat. “Istanbul is huge and we have wasted too much time. And no doubt they will be leaving the city quickly.” 

“They left a lot of their cars sitting empty just a block away while they were attacking the compound, doors open. I guess they wanted to be able to drive away quickly if they had to,” Gaby said innocently. “So I might’ve sneaked over to slide my ‘engagement ring’ under one of the back seats, since everyone was so busy shooting everyone else.” 

There was a long silence, and then, after, even as Solo started to chuckle, this time it was Illya who said, wryly, “You _are_ a treasure.”

“You’re welcome, gentlemen.”


	12. Chapter 12

e.

Unfortunately, the trail went cold north of Istanbul, on a flat piece of land surrounded by a chain link fence. The dirt was packed down, and there was a large warehouse with its roller door up. The car with the tracker had been parked neatly outside, along with a row of other identical cars.

Solo and Illya prowled around as Gaby leaned against the side of the car, arms folded. It had been clear to her mechanic’s eye from the tools in the warehouse what it doubled as, but the boys looked as though they needed to work off some energy, so she said nothing. Solo was the first to wander back, and Gaby tried not to stare at the fresh, red mark above his collar. She was fairly sure that hadn’t been there when he had left the hotel. Which meant-

Illya ambled over as well, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, biting down a yawn. “There was a plane here. Small one. Some cars left here, some drove on, but some people entered the plane.” 

“Judging from the tracks, one of said people was fairly reluctant about it,” Solo added. He too, was stifling yawns. “Back to square one.” 

Illya spun on his heel, muttering something guttural in Russian. “So we go and rest,” Gaby decided. “That plane has to land somewhere. I’ll get U.N.C.L.E. to look up every private airfield in Turkey.” 

“Assuming missile field is in Turkey,” Illya muttered. 

“Parts got routed through Istanbul.” 

“Might just be because of strong local operation and airfield.” Illya glared at the warehouse, jaw working. “Clearly very organised.” 

“I wouldn’t say we have nothing. Consider all the people who died out at the Black Hand compound,” Solo disagreed. “We could put a flag on all their passports. Try to see a correlation.” 

“We are wasting _time_.”

“You can’t build a rocket in a day. Or even a week. Korolyov has time,” Solo said gently, to Gaby’s surprise. To her further astonishment, instead of biting out something sardonic, Illya merely sighed and nodded. Gaby arched an eyebrow at Solo, but he merely shrugged at her, with a faint grin, then he frowned and looked up sharply, over her shoulder.

Gaby turned. Coming up the rise towards the airfield were two cars. 

“Gaby,” Illya said quietly, his hand already in his jacket, “Go to the warehouse and stay there. Lie on floor.” 

Nodding nervously, Gaby started to go, but she hesitated as the cars swerved to a stop at the top of the rise, the doors opening. Waverly was the first one out, impeccable in a tweed suit, one hand even hitched into a trouser pocket, as though he’d just stepped right out of Ascot.

“Sir?” Gaby said, incredulous. “I thought you were in New York!” 

“Ah no. I’ve been close by, ever since the whole world and their mother decided to get involved in what I thought was going to be a relatively simple matter,” Waverly said dourly. 

Behind him, a slim, sun-browned man was getting out of the driver’s side of the car, dressed in a dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt, his face a roughened valley of seamed lines, mouth seemingly frozen into a flat, thin gash of permanent disapproval. Out of the second, smaller car, someone had wedged himself out of the driver’s side, a smiling, handsome and swarthy man, tall and powerfully built, dressed in military fatigues, a holstered pistol at his hip. Both strangers followed Waverly into the compound, and Waverly pursed his lips as he studied the airfield, then the makeshift hangar. 

“They got away,” Gaby volunteered, mindful of her promise to Illya and to Solo.

“Oh yes, quite obviously.” Waverly said wearily. “Honestly. I drop the three of you into Istanbul and within a few days we’ve had several homicides, at least one case of arson, and some sort of O.K. Corral incident in a rather flammable neighborhood.” 

“On the other hand,” said the military man, who had a Turkish accent, “It seems we are less one international kidnapping gang.”

The man in the suit shook his head slowly, but said nothing. Waverly nodded at him. “Meet Ezra. Our friend over there is Yaegar.” 

“Mossad and MAH?” Solo guessed. 

“Correct, but not in that order. Ezra, Yaegar, this is my agent Gaby Teller, and here on loan is Napoleon Solo from the CIA and Illya Kuryakin from the KGB.”

“Heard of you both,” Yaegar said cheerfully. “Very big names. Maybe I should get the two of you to sign my arm, yes?” 

Ezra rolled his eyes. “Sanders asked me to assist,” he said shortly, and seemed disinclined to say anything else, staring at the airfield instead, as though personally offended by the world. 

“So we’re all friends then,” Waverly said blandly. 

“CIA friends,” Illya muttered, almost inaudibly, Gaby couldn’t hide her grin in time, but thankfully, although Waverly’s calculating stare flicked over to her, he said nothing. 

“I’ll start,” Yaegar suggested. “As the three of you now know, the woman you know as Kara was one of mine.” 

“Collections?” Solo asked. 

“If only,” Yaegar said wryly. “Caesarea.” 

Illya went very still, and Solo raised his eyebrows. “That’s not good.” 

“I’ve heard of Caesarea,” Illya said, frowning. “It is true then? You are all assassins? Elite subset of Mossad?” 

“I prefer to think of us as highly competent problem solvers,” Yaegar said, though he flashed them a tight grin. 

“What was a Caesarea agent doing pretending to be a fence in Istanbul?” Solo asked, puzzled. 

“You’ll be surprised at how many interesting things we get to know through… unusual placements during downtime between missions,” Yaegar drawled. “Things that can be traded for other things, shall we say. Such as, for example, a little hint that, some months down the line, led to a certain tip off, where a very notorious art thief was concerned, which then led to the CIA owing Mossad a very big favour, which then led to some American naval assistance during a mission that went sour halfway across the world months after that.” 

Solo stiffened, then he let out a rueful laugh. “She _was_ too good a fence.”

“She wasn’t at the compound. Not that I saw,” Illya said doubtfully. 

“And I doubt that she would’ve been. Thanks to Yaegar’s decision to enhance… inter-agency ties, shall we say… I’ve learned a few final pieces of the puzzle,” Waverly noted. “We’ve always suspected very strongly that T.H.R.U.S.H.’s top level management, as it were, involved always a team of two. One person is called the Professor, and the other is called the Colonel.”

“After the original leaders of the organisation, Moriarty and Moran?” Illya asked.

“Yes. It turns out that terrorist organisations can be terribly sentimental about things after all. We’ve had no inkling who or what the Professor is. But recently of late, we’ve begun to suspect that the current Colonel is a woman.”

“What happened to Kara five years ago?” Gaby looked over at Yaegar. “Your people told Sanders that you thought that she had been killed.” 

“We sent her after the leader of a Nazi-affiliated insurgency movement operating in Ankara, rumoured to be behind several… problems, shall we say… in Israel. She never returned.” Yaegar lifted a shoulder into a shrug. “When she failed to check in with her handler we sent another Caesarea agent. Then another. Kara was never found, and the leader went into hiding. So we thought she had tried, failed, and died, or would have been as close to dead as useless as at that point.” 

“But she was turned.” Illya supplied. “Strange for Caesarea.”

“Always a first time,” Yaegar shrugged again. “But believe me, I’m surprised.” 

“When did you suspect that she had gone rogue?” Gaby pressed.

“Few years on one of our agents happened to have the time to look around Istanbul. She found that Kara’s very lucrative side business in the illegal acquisitions business was still running. Along the same lines as it had before.”

“Suggestive but not conclusive,” Illya said. 

“And then the agent disappeared without a trace, the day after she reported in. After that, we took things more seriously. But we lost the scent after a year, and we had never known the exact volume or location of her side business anyway. So we filed it away as a cold case and got on with our lives.” Yaegar spread his hands wide, palms up. “ _Mea culpa_.”

“Should have told us about it,” Ezra said sourly.

“Yes, yes. It was a rather embarrassing incident that we decided not to share, our fault and all that. Admit it, gentlemen - and milady. If we’re in this business, it’s normal to have trust issues. Besides. It wasn’t my call.” 

“What was your call, then?” Solo asked.

Yaegar smiled, a smile that did not touch his eyes. “Call in all the free Caesarea agents and go on a manhunt, of course. No one embarrasses the Caesarea.” 

“I don’t see your other agents,” Illya drawled.

“Again, sadly, history has repeated itself and it is still not my call. But the Mossad expresses its firm wish that the embarrassment goes away. So I am here. You get _one_ Caesarea agent. Think of it as very slightly winning the lottery.”

“To cut a long and boring brief of events short,” Waverly added, “After correlating Mossad’s full file on Kara with ours, we’re fairly sure that she is the Colonel. So. This has just gone from being a simple matter to an annoyingly complicated one. But I have no other agents free at present, and-“

“You’ll be pitching in, sir?” Solo asked innocently. 

“Good God, no. I intend on having tea somewhere warm and pleasant within the next two hours. People to see, places to be, and I’ve done my part, facilitating the unnecessarily convoluted politics of inter-agency friendships. But keep calm and carry on, and all that. Our friend Ezra here and his minions will be doing a great deal of the grunt work, figuring out where the plane might have gone, tracing ownership records and shell companies and all that, cross referencing Kara’s Mossad file. So… get some rest, and Ezra will call you all at some point in time hopefully in the near future with progress.” Waverly clapped Ezra on the shoulder, who flinched.

“We shall see,” Ezra said, in the same sour voice.

X.

Gaby had gone off with Waverly and Ezra in one car, presumably to get debriefed further, and Yaegar drove off on their tail in the second car, presumably to squirrel himself away somewhere as well. That left Napoleon and Illya, leaning against the little black Citroën.

“Left bag of weapons in Black Hand compound,” Illya said regretfully, as they watched the others drive off and out of sight. 

“And I left the Dragunov on the roof. Can’t be helped.”

“Pity. Dragunov is good rifle.” 

“Surely we can borrow some firearms off our new ‘friends’.” Napoleon stifled another yawn. “More importantly, let’s find someplace to go where we can eat, sleep and clean up, not necessarily in that order. Your place or mine?” 

Illya stared at him, and for a moment Napoleon almost expected Illya to say curtly that they were going to have to split up. Just as abruptly, however, Illya looked away. “KGB safehouse. Better location. Hotel maybe compromised.”

“Good point.” 

Illya drove. They ditched the Citroën in a public car park, searched it in case Gaby had left anything in it, then trudged down two streets until they reached the KGB safehouse. They took turns to scrub down in the cold shower, soot and dirt turning the shower floor a muddy gray, too tired for it to be anything but clinical. They rinsed out their clothes and hung them to dry in the sparse living room from a fraying clothesline that they unearthed from the closet, and then curled together on the cot, Napoleon falling asleep instantly, head tucked over Illya’s shoulder. 

Waking up to someone nuzzling at his throat was novel. Napoleon tickled his fingers sleepily over the back of Illya’s head, and tilted his chin up with a yawn to give Illya better access. Illya made a low and rumbling sound, all animal satisfaction, and licked a stripe up from Napoleon’s collarbone to his jaw, then pushed himself up from the bed, squinting at the shuttered window. 

“I don’t think the clothes are dry.” Napoleon tried pulling Illya back down to the bed.

“Have spare clothes.” Illya said, just as Napoleon’s neglected stomach made itself known with a growl. Illya’s lip curled, all sharp amusement. “Will get breakfast.” He squinted again. “Lunch,” Illya amended. “And coffee.”

“Don’t mind me then,” Napoleon advised him, and rolled gratefully into the warm spot. Illya responded by biting him on the shoulder, working in teeth but not breaking the skin, then nipping Napoleon on the nape of his neck before finally getting off the bed and padding away. 

Napoleon tried to doze off, but now his cock was half hard and pressed to his thigh, and he rubbed the heel of his palm against it slowly with a low sigh, listening lazily as Illya got dressed somewhere in the background and then left the safehouse. The ceiling was pitted and dusty, with a long hairline crack running from north to southeast, and Napoleon followed it slowly with his eyes, wetting his lips as he made a fist of his fingers at the root of his cock and squeezed leisurely up to the cap. Then he smiled to himself and got of the bed, to get very _thoroughly_ cleaned up in the shower. 

Illya returned to the flat trailing a thick smell of pastry and oil, just as Napoleon was towelling off. They ate böreks sitting on the floor, with their fingers, Napoleon with a towel low over his hips, but they were both too hungry to do much more than wolf down food and wash it down with blindingly strong coffee, flaky pastry getting everywhere. Illya’s cheek and his right hand still looked dully red, as though he had been badly sunburned, but other than that, they’d gotten off far luckier than they should’ve.

“We should go to hotel. Get rest of your gear.” Napoleon had Illya’s full attention now, as he slowly sucked oily fingers clean. 

“It’ll wait.” 

“I need to report in,” Illya didn’t move, however. “So do you, I think.” 

“Probably,” Napoleon agreed, fingers clean now, and Illya narrowed his eyes as Napoleon shifted over, straddling his lap and grasping his wrist. At the first curl of Napoleon’s tongue against Illya’s thumb, he felt Illya shift bodily under him, and Illya’s mouth parted, showing the faint curl of white teeth. 

“Napoleon,” Illya said, in a voice now like a low snarl, a baited wolf, and Napoleon smiled against the fingers he had pressed into his mouth. He could feel Illya’s cock swelling against his inner thigh, tenting his spare trousers, and Illya swallowed hard as Napoleon grazed teeth against the callused pads of Illya’s fingers. 

“If Waverly has something for us no doubt they’d know how to find us,” Napoleon observed idly, “What with all this spirit of inter-agency friendship going around.” 

“So?” Illya asked, if huskily, his eyes dropping to the fresh mark on Napoleon’s shoulders. 

“So I think that since life will probably get very busy again very soon,” Napoleon drawled, “It’ll be a pity not to make use of what time we have now while we still can.” He licked a last stripe up Illya’s little finger, and let go of Illya’s wrist. 

“What do you have in mind?” 

“I think a man who’s strong enough to tear the back off a car and lift a motorcycle should also be strong enough to fuck me against the wall.” 

Illya’s gaze seemed to darken visibly, even as his already straining cock pulsed against Napoleon’s thigh. “I haven’t done that before. Against wall.”

“The mechanics are fairly similar to the horizontal tango,” Napoleon assured him, with a lazy smirk. “Except that you won’t have to worry about hurting me - if we start off the show with some patience.” 

“You don’t want to walk during the rest of the mission?” Illya drawled, though he had pressed his hands up under Napoleon’s towel, rubbing up Napoleon’s thighs, the flannel cloth dipping lower and lower yet. The floor was rough against Napoleon’s bared knees and the balls of his feet, but he didn’t care. He had pulled the wolf’s tail, and he wanted to be bitten. 

“Let _me_ worry about that,” Napoleon said, and it was Illya who surged up to kiss him, as though the last of his reservations had been torn away, dragging Napoleon roughly up to grind the tenting bulge in his trousers against Napoleon’s bared ass. Napoleon muted his laughter against Illya’s mouth and got bitten for it, and he rubbed himself against the pressure, dazed with anticipation. He knew how big Illya was; big enough to make Napoleon’s jaw ache, and it had been a while since Napoleon had spread his legs for anyone. 

Thankfully they were near the wall cache, which contained a Makarov PM, spare cartridges, batteries and a box of probably the standard KGB kit, and, more importantly, a first aid kit, which had been stocked with a small tub of vaseline. Illya said nothing as Napoleon fished it out with a flourish, though he leaned back against the wall when Napoleon dipped his fingers into it. Napoleon took his time and made a show of spreading himself, free hand braced against the wall beside Illya’s head; Illya had tossed the towel aside, and his long-fingered hands first skittered awkwardly up and down Napoleon’s thighs before settling on his hips, squeezing down, kneading. 

“It won’t fit,” Illya breathed. “ _I_ won’t fit.” 

“We’ll see,” Napoleon purred, and moaned for show as he fit in a second finger; his breathing hitching into an actual keening whine when Illya bared his teeth and abruptly pulled Napoleon over to graze his teeth in the hollow of Napoleon’s neck. By the time Napoleon had managed to fit in three fingers his breaths were shallow and torn and he was grinding himself blindly against Illya’s hip, pinned close, and this was going to be better than Napoleon had anticipated, he knew that now, greedily. He should have tried to do this before. In Rome, even. 

Illya chuckled against him, all harsh, rough barks: Napoleon had spoken that out aloud, hazy as he was with lust, and then he was being hauled to his feet, so abruptly that he lurched dizzily against the wall for a moment as his balance reoriented. Illya kissed Napoleon before Napoleon could recover, grinding his shoulders against smooth drywall and pinning him again, curled against him, coppery blood entwined with coffee and oil and their mutual maddened hunger. Napoleon had pulled the wolf’s tail and now the wolf intended to have him. 

The vaseline tub was tossed aside as Napoleon impatiently navigated belt buckle, zipper and Illya’s boxers, used a generous portion to slick Illya’s cock, then he hitched one thigh around Illya’s hip and smirked up at him in wordless challenge. Illya rolled his eyes and curled an arm up under Napoleon’s other thigh and shoved him an inch up against the drywall with only a faint grunt of effort, big hands planted on the walls. Teeth sank into Napoleon’s shoulder as Napoleon groped down and guided the thick head of Illya’s cock into his opening, fingers shaky with impatience; the air in Napoleon’s lungs punched out of him in a raw and hungry gasp as Illya pressed into him, a gritty and inexorable slide, Illya’s mouth now pressed against Napoleon’s temple, buried in his hair, choking out wet and strangled sobs.

And it hurt - by God it _hurt_ , and it was glorious. 

When Illya was fully seated, he hitched Napoleon up against the wall again and kissed his forehead, then bent to brush a restless kiss against Napoleon’s parted mouth. Illya’s belt and trousers rode roughly against Napoleon’s thighs and Napoleon's hands were flat against the wall, palms growing sweaty and slippery; but sensation like discomfort seemed increasingly irrelevant against the dense satisfaction of how full Napoleon felt, like this, how overwhelmed. Big hands had crept to his lower back and his ass, almost shyly, and Napoleon tapped a heel against Illya’s spine, smirking again, urging him on. 

“Come on, Peril,” Napoleon goaded, and licked his own lips. “You haven’t shown me anything yet.” 

“You,” Illya growled, but then he shook his head and took in a breath and rolled his hips, cautiously, then he growled again as Napoleon kicked his heel harder against Illya’s back. 

Illya’s feet shifted against the ground, steadying his balance, and _now_ he began to fuck Napoleon like he meant it, drumming a hollow savage rhythm against the wall. Napoleon’s back would be bruised by tonight but it was worth it: he laughed, all breathless gasping mirth that wore into keening moans when Illya shot him a furious stare and drove deeper, both hands clenched under Napoleon’s ass and using Napoleon’s weight to force him to take the full, thick length of Illya’s cock. Napoleon didn’t bother to touch his own. He used what leverage he could get to ride Illya as hard as he could; this was nothing like making love, and hardly like the sort of playful bedroom romp that Napoleon usually indulged in. This was Illya scouring himself under Napoleon’s skin, Illya gouging memory into Napoleon’s bones; this was Napoleon scratching the imprint of his existence against the maddened, wounded beast that lay chained under the weight of Illya’s soul. When Illya’s hips finally stuttered and ground to a stop against Napoleon’s rump, the ragged sound he made against Napoleon’s ear was one of visceral defeat. 

Napoleon stumbled as Illya let him down, legs shaky, and as he reached for himself Illya knocked Napoleon’s hand away, pinning his wrists up on the wall, to either side of Napoleon’s head. “Illya,” Napoleon pleaded, dazed with lust, so close. “Illya _please_.”

“I like that,” Illya whispered, his smile all teeth, all banked pleasure, as Napoleon shivered and twisted ineffectively in Illya’s grip, cock dripping, Illya’s spend leaking out down his thigh, the room thick with the smell of sex. “Keep your hands up, Cowboy.” 

Napoleon nodded, too desperate to get off to argue, and let out a throaty moan of relief as Illya let go of his wrists and closed one hand over Napoleon’s cock. It took a few rough tugs to push Napoleon over the edge, and he whined as Illya stroked him through it, squeezing until the pressure was growing painful. 

Illya smeared his soiled hand against Napoleon’s hip, then his teeth were pressed back against Napoleon’s neck, this time dangerously close to the jugular vein. As Napoleon twitched against Illya, senses all haywire under overstimulation, Illya rumbled something Napoleon could not quite pick out against his skin, then long fingers curled against the seed seeping down Napoleon’s thigh, gathering up the spend, and stuffed it back up inside. Napoleon jerked with an incredulous yelp, then hissed as Illya worked his long fingers languidly, possessively deeper, the wet sound obscenely loud under their mingled, stuttered breaths. 

“I want to fuck you again on the bed,” Illya said, not quite a question, not quite a statement. 

Napoleon tried to control the heightening interest of his traitorous libido. “When I implied earlier that I wasn’t worried about being able to walk-“

“Yes or no?”

Ah, what the hell. Life was too short anyway. “If we don’t break that bed, I’m going to be disappointed,” Napoleon said, and grinned as Illya bared his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caesarea = reorganised in 1970s to become the Kidon, which feature in NCIS, which has David McCallum, the original Illya ;)


	13. Chapter 13

x.

It was safer for Gaby to move into U.N.C.L.E.’s bureau for the time being, despite her initial complaints that it only had cold water. Hotels were turning out to be too complicated, particularly since Solo still had no idea how Kara had traced Gaby to their second hotel. Illya suspected that Kara had simply hired a snitch in each of the prominent hotels likely to attract foreigners and left it at that: it would’ve proved as a useful first flag for anyone coming through to Istanbul with her name on a bullet.

Oleg was suspiciously noncommittal whenever Illya reported in. Relieved that Korolyov was still alive, perhaps. Illya hadn’t even been rebuked over the botched Black Hand rescue attempt. As to Solo, the CIA seemed content with the current mission pace, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. In Illya’s experience, the CIA did seem rather more lax than the KGB when it came to matters of latitude. 

Ezra reluctantly replenished their supply of weaponry, albeit with American equipment, and with a sour comment about how he _hoped_ that no more acts of ‘accidental arson’ were going to take place in the country. Other than that, however, the MAH left them alone, and there was no sign of Yaegar. 

Two days in, Gaby had clearly started to get worried. “Maybe there’s something that we could be doing,” she suggested, as the three of them had coffee over in the U.N.C.L.E. bureau, a surprisingly pleasant house in a walled estate by the side of the Bosphorus, prime land where Istanbul was concerned, and rather ostentatious for a safehouse. Spoils of war, apparently, though there was no hot water, the furniture was old and dusty and poorly kept, and there were some suspicious pockmarks and stains in some of the rooms. 

“Like what?” Solo was lying on a deck chair in the balcony facing the water, sunning himself like a cat. There was no outward evidence of the… exertion that Solo and Illya had both engaged in, only hours before, the marks on Solo’s throat hidden by his turtleneck.

Illya was at the dining table, helping Gaby cross reference Mossad and MAH reports. “The MAH is looking through travel records of the dead found at the Black Hand, Mossad is digging into Kara, Waverly is drinking tea, and we are here, reinventing the wheel.” 

“I prefer to think of it as conserving our energy,” Solo offered. 

Illya scowled at the balcony. “CIA must spoonfeed its agents. Like baby birds.”

“You heard our current boss. Leave it to the MAH to dig out information and all that. That’s a lesson you learn early from the Army. Don’t volunteer for anything.” 

“ _Your_ American army,” Illya muttered, though it wasn’t quite true. It had been the same in the Special Forces as well. 

“Why didn’t you like the army?” Gaby asked curiously. “You were doing fairly well according to your record.” 

“Me?” Solo asked, and when Gaby nodded, he laughed. “The money’s terrible. Also, it got increasingly difficult to stomach the remarkable, constant avalanche of bullshit from upper command. Pardon my language.” 

Gaby giggled, then looked a little guiltily at Illya, who shrugged at her. That had been the case in the Special Forces too. It seemed the world was full of downwards-flowing bullshit no matter what colour it was. Speaking of bullshit- “Where is Waverly now?” Illya asked Gaby. 

“Somewhere warm and nice and drinking tea still, I presume.”

“He had nothing else for you all this time? After that night?”

“He just wanted a performance report about the two of you,” Gaby said, and grinned impishly at Illya. “Don’t worry. I was nice.” 

“You should be honest,” Illya disagreed. “Or he will not trust you as handler. Handler answers to head of operations. Not to agents.” 

Gaby sighed. “This is why you can’t have nice things, Illya,” Solo said, without looking up from his deck chair. 

“I am trying to help her keep her job,” Illya told Solo disapprovingly. “You are bad influence.”

“ _I’m_ a bad influence? _You_ are, you mean.”

“Boys, boys,” Gaby said dryly. “I really am enjoying myself. Overall. So. Don’t ruin it.” 

“You are?” Solo asked, amused. “Even with the homicides and arson and… what was it… the ‘O.K. Corral Incident’?” 

“Why yes, actually. It’s been fun so far.”

“Novelty will wear off very quickly,” Illya predicted firmly. 

Four days in, it hadn’t seemed to. Perhaps life in a East Germany chopshop had given Gaby a permanently high threshold where boredom was concerned. Then Ezra pulled through, and they met Ezra and Yaegar at a Turkish army air base in Istanbul in the ungodly hours of a morning, where a gray Chinook was waiting for them, squat and bulbous and ugly, its three-bladed tandem rotors currently quiet atop their mast mountings, placed high enough to clear ground personnel.

“Miss Teller and I will stay here and monitor the situation,” Ezra told them as they approached, standing next to a map pinned onto a crate. “Kuryakin, Solo and Yaegar to parachute in here.” He pointed at a red cross on the map. Base is suspected to be here.” Ezra pointed again, this time at a circled region on a mountainous section of Southeastern Anatolia, around a dot marked Erun. “If you go in low and fast you will avoid radar. _Hopefully_.” Ezra’s tone indicated that he wasn’t optimistic about a lack of fuck ups in the near future.

“You were right,” Gaby told Illya wryly, but he merely shrugged. Southeastern Anatolia was huge, and the mountainous regions so remote that a search based on just a hunch would’ve been a waste of resources. 

“Forensic accounting indicates that a shell company that we’ve flagged as of interest purchased a large stretch of land around Erun, including much of the actual village’s land,” Ezra ignored them both. “Trucks have been seen going up the mountain road. License plates owned by another shell company, a clean one. Actual courier company. Except they have no other clients.”

 _That_ wasn’t just a hunch. “Sloppy,” Illya muttered. 

“Not the Russian way?” Solo asked, with a grin. 

Illya rolled his eyes. “Russian way would mix legitimate business for cover. Companies like these have unexplained costs and often make no paper profit. Very suspicious. If MAH was looking into T.H.R.U.S.H. for years then it should have investigated flagged companies earlier.” 

“Anyone can make a shell company with very little money,” Yaegar cut in soothingly, as Ezra visibly bristled. “And plenty of companies have only one client, or make only losses for years. The police and the MAH can’t exactly spend all its resources tracking the dealings of all the shell companies in Turkey. World has many other problems.” 

“Illya,” Gaby murmured, even as Solo raised an eyebrow. 

“… Was not criticism,” Illya conceded, after a pause, in a stiltedly conciliatory tone. 

“Patently insincere but at least you tried,” Yaegar patted Illya on the arm. “Are we friends again?”

“I just want all this to be over so that all of you leave my country,” Ezra told them.

“That’s the spirit!” Yaegar agreed brightly. 

Illya sighed.

XI.

The drop went off without a hitch, and soon they were hiding their parachutes in the brush. The mountain rise was steep, and was thick with trees, rising seemingly uninterrupted out of the recently logged clearing into which they had landed.

“Why doesn’t MAH just muster forces and kick door down?” Illya muttered, as they started to trek upwards. 

“Because the brute force approach didn’t work out very well during your last operation,” Yaegar answered, and when Illya glared at him, said dryly, “You lost an objective. Yes, I heard about it. The Caesarea hear many things.”

“Objective is now ATV plans,” Illya pointed out instantly, narrowing his eyes.

“Which can be destroyed.” Napoleon said mildly. “And which would make my actual boss very upset indeed.” 

“…Your people should just give up on race,” Illya said, though he looked away, and when Yaegar forged on ahead, drifted closer to squeeze Napoleon briefly on the shoulder, as though in thanks for covering his slip. 

“Actually I’ve been watching the entire business with great interest,” Yaegar said up ahead. “And I think the Americans will win in the end.”

“Oh?” Illya stiffened, to Napoleon’s amusement. “Technology is worse, head scientists not even American-“

“The American way seems to involve a certain sort of utter bloodymindedness about the world,” Yaegar cut in cheerfully. “Which, perhaps strangely or not, seems to move things their way when it counts.” 

“Don’t look at me,” Napoleon told Illya. “I’m not invested in this business at all. It could be Australia sending up the first koala to the moon for all I care.” 

“In any case,” Yaegar added, “Your objective is the plans. Mine is Kara. And if we were to coordinate a mass attack on the base, we’ll just scare her away.” 

“You want her alive?” Illya inquired. 

“Preferably not.” 

“You want to kill her yourself?” 

“Dead is dead,” Yaegar said, and smiled. “Now we understand each other.” 

Napoleon looked pointedly at Illya, who frowned up at the trees, scowling. “One more thing,” Napoleon added urbanely. “I’ve been told that my boss would very much like to take delivery of a missile base. So I’ll really prefer it if no one destroys any labs, tech, missiles, missile parts, or shoots any scientists or related staff.” 

Yaegar looked mildly insulted. “What do you take me for?” 

“Just checking.” Illya had relaxed a little, which was a good sign. Hopefully. 

They made the rest of the trek in silence, skirting the village as well when they came across it. The road further up from the village was wider, curling further up, until it came to a lake, where it promptly stopped.

“Huh.” Napoleon said, looking out over the calm, still waters. The lake stretched wider than Taksim square, and at the edge beyond, he could see a neat line of trees. 

Yaegar was kneeling in the dirt, studying it. The tyre tracks cut around the lake for a few metres, and then seemed to turn _into_ it, disappearing. Yaegar waded into the water, toeing the silt around with his boot thoughtfully.

“Fake door?” Illya suggested. 

“Not easy to see from the air.” Yaegar agreed. “I think it’s a partly mechanical roof with walls that would inflate up and out of the water to the land. Pretty large mouth. Would admit one truck, maybe heading down an incline and underground.” 

“So we wait here until next delivery,” Illya suggested. “Steal aboard one of the trucks.”

“Or we could knock.” Yaegar countered, and grinned. 

At a safe distance, Yaegar checked his watch as Napoleon leaned against a tree and Illya glanced across the lake, eyes darting from the shore to the tree line. After a few minutes, there was a geyser of water from where the hidden door had been, then water started to drain rapidly into a jagged opening that the compact mine had made, swirling in like water curling into a drain. 

“Now we lose element of surprise,” Illya muttered. “Outstanding.”

“Oh, I think we’ll manage.” Yaegar said, unruffled.

“Maybe flooded base.” Illya added.

“If the base is as large as we think, that’ll take a while, and they’ll evacuate with anything important. In which case, our job will be easier. But I think they’ll most likely just close a blast door and seal in the tunnel. Personally, I very much doubt this lake is even natural.”

As they watched, after a while the water stopped swirling, and then the lake became calm again. Somewhere, a set of emergency doors had sealed.

“There you go. No immediate harm done. And here’s where we part ways,” Yaegar tucked his sleeve back over his watch, and shook hands with Napoleon, then with Illya. “A base like this will probably have at least one service exit and one alternative exit, usually at polar opposite locations. I will go left and the two of you will go right and we will see what we see.”

“Good hunting,” Napoleon offered, and Yaegar nodded at him before stepping quietly away into the trees, his combat fatigues disguising him amongst mottled shadows quickly. 

As Yaegar had predicted, response units quickly popped out from underground. More mercenaries, dressed in black and grays, and, customary for mercenaries, were using assorted weaponry based on personal preferences. Silenced rounds worked well outdoors: Napoleon ducked out of cover, bracing against his Walther’s recoil, and yards away behind a fallen tree, one mercenary jerked back a step, then another from the insurance shot, and fell, Uzi pumping up a line of bullets from twitching fingers and shooting up his companion. 

At their screams, another mercenary turned sharply in Napoleon’s direction, M16 upraised, only for his head to turn into pink mist - Illya’s work, further ahead and to the right. Napoleon ducked from his tree to another, triangulating shouts and commands, and ducked out again, slow breath, aim, recoil, a double slap against his palm. Twenty paces past Illya’s probable position, one of the mercenaries jerked back against a tree, crying out. The welcome stink of gunpowder was smoky in the air, residue flecking Napoleon’s arms as he let out his breath and kept moving, tree to tree. 

By the time Napoleon finally reached the first service hatch, albeit by nearly falling right down into it, there were only sounds of scattered fire, further away into the forest. He hesitated, wondering whether or not to circle back and look for Illya, but then there was the staccato burst of gunfire again, even further away, and he sighed, philosophically reloaded, and started to climb quietly down the shaft. It led to a narrow corridor that opened out into a guard room, where rows of closed circuit TVs gave Napoleon and bird’s eye view of sections of the base. 

There was a brand new swimming pool where the hangar and unloading zone had been, but only that section was flooded. Either the blast doors that led away from it were watertight, or the hangar was the lowest area of the base, but either way, Napoleon let out a sigh of relief. Two of the other screens showed an orderly office and a lab of some sort, people still working as though the alarm hadn’t been sounded. Another screen showed some sort of underground factory in progress, machinery fitting something or other that Napoleon couldn’t identify together. Another screen flicked between the bowels of some great cooling centre, something unfinished and under construction, and a large industrial kitchen, busy at work. The last screen, oddly enough, flicked between a small empty bedroom and some sort of large study, also empty, the walls full of intricate diagrams and equations. 

Korolyov’s location, perhaps? Napoleon tried typing a few commands on the keyboard and fiddling with some controls, to at least try to find out how to get there from where he was, but didn’t manage to switch the views, and eventually gave it up as a bad job. He did find a fire safety map of the facility kept in a glass panel on the door out, however, and he tugged it out, memorised as much of it from a glance as he could, and folded it into his jacket.

Napoleon may not, overall, be a very good spy, thanks to a very healthy Spirit of Innocent Inquiry, but he _was_ a very good thief, thank you very much, and as such, he avoided patrols and stole through the facility as quietly as he could, keeping to service tunnels and walkways where possible. Security seemed skeletal despite the all-hands-on-deck alarm klaxon, which was a good sign. Yaegar and/or Illya were still up above, keeping everyone busy. Maybe. 

It took Napoleon a short exercise in logic, luck and circumstance to find his way down four levels, five increasingly challenging locks and finally to a Chubbs vault door - how delightfully classic - that led to the study he had seen in the guard room screens. The camera angle from security had shown only one view of the room, and Napoleon noticed the angled black lens from where he stood, and was careful to stay under its sight range. 

The Chubbs door locked from the outside. That was a good sign. The room was indeed covered in arcane scribblings, equations and diagrams, papered feverishly in printouts over the walls and parts of the ground, some of it circled in red with comments in shorthand Russian and English scribbled over. Another good sign. Napoleon hooked over a chair and climbed up to the camera, attaching a little disruptor cell to it that would cause the image it was currently projecting to loop over the closed circuit system, and then went to work. 

Napoleon had collected a few computer discs from around the room before he finally found one stamped with the NASA logo, half buried under a ream of printouts. Satisfied, he fished it out, dislodging the printouts, which scattered on the floor in a wave of thin paper. Most of it seemed to be diagrams of some sort, marked with a huge CONFIDENTIAL stamp and the NASA logo, for some arcane, sphere-cone-sphere shape, and all the papers were thickly marked over with red ink, this time entirely in Russian. Napoleon picked up one of the printouts.

“Apollo Spacecraft Feasibility Study,” Napoleon read the title out aloud curiously. 

What was _this_? What was Apollo? Something irrelevant? He tried to read Korolyov(?)’s dense scrawl, but gave up, and eventually gathered the printouts in a neat stack, found a canvas bag, and just rolled as much as he could be bothered to carry into it and slung the bag over his shoulder. 

The study led out to a small bedroom and an attached bathroom, nothing else. In the bathroom, however, Napoleon found an opened jar of pills, labelled neatly in English and Turkish - the blockers. Korolyov had been here for a few days, judging from the indentations in the otherwise new tube of toothpaste.

Getting out was slightly more tricky, and took more care than getting in - security was beefing up, reinforcements hauled out of somewhere deeper in the facility or recalled from the surroundings. Napoleon ended up having to quietly dispose of the two guardsmen who had returned to man the guardroom - by breaking the neck of the first, whose back had been turned towards the entrance to the base, and knifing the second in the throat. He held the guard still until he had bled out and stopped twitching, and watched the screens, and therefore, was just in time to watch Yaegar dart into view in the screen overlooking the factory. Moments later, Kara stepped into view as well, in a black jacket and form-fitting trousers, reloading a carbine.

Well. This should be good. 

Napoleon propped the now dead guard on the seat, carefully, then leaned his elbows over the back of the chair and watched as the two Caesarea agents played cat and mouse over the rapidly abandoned factory floor. Yaegar was good, but it soon became clear that Kara was better - she was only toying with the older agent. Soon enough, she tired of the game, feinted, and as he stepped out from cover, misinterpreting Kara’s location, she fired from his flank. In the screen, Yaegar twitched silently, fell, and tried to crawl towards the closest cover, but Kara had stalked closer, and once she was close enough, she fired the last insurance shot through Yaegar’s head, killing him instantly. She spat on his body, seemed to glance around, then walked briskly out of sight. 

Illya could probably use some help.

On the other hand, _Napoleon’s_ mission was technically accomplished. He eyed the exit longingly, then gave the security screens a final scan, just in case. 

Surely Illya could take care of himself. _Surely_.

xi.

On the other side of the facility, Illya wrinkled his nose, briefly fighting the sudden urge to sneeze.

He had entered the facility through some sort of concealed pillbox, a concrete guard post that had led underground to some sort of security room, shooting anyone unlucky enough to get in his way. Ezra had supplied ear plugs in case they’d had to do wetwork indoors, but firing even a suppressed Makarov in narrow confines was still making Illya’s ears ring dully. His clothes stank of gunpowder by the time he had seen the security screens, noted that Korolyov was clearly not in his rooms - who else would occupy a single study full of equations - and then Illya had made the logical choice to investigate the facility’s Plan B exit strategy. 

This turned out to be a long tunnel that led outwards from the base towards a second underground car park, one that opened out under a lip of grass from the flank of a cliff, no doubt to hide it from aerial view. There were two familiar-looking black cars with blackened windows parked close to the door, and Illya was just in time to watch a loudly protesting Korolyov get manhandled into one at gunpoint. 

Illya braced his M16 and fired, all short, sharp bursts, taking down first the mercenary closest to Korolyov, then the two others with their backs to him. “KGB!” he called out briskly, as Korolyov cowered against the car, no doubt dazed by the too-loud roar of indoor gunfire. “Sir, are you all right? Sir?”

“He’ll be fine,” said a familiar voice in Russian, and _Oleg_ got out of the front of the car. Illya stared, astonished, as Oleg looked around at the dying around them, and grimaced at the stink from the man closest by. Intestinal rupture, at least. “While you have compromised extraction.” 

“I didn’t realize that you were running a parallel operation,” Illya argued, stung.

Oleg grunted. “It was necessary. Now. I will get Korolyov to safety. You should go back and finish your mission.”

“If we have Korolyov then the mission is finished.”

“You still have to get rid of Napoleon Solo.” 

Illya blinked rapidly. He could feel the hollowing focus seep through, the roar of blood in his ears, the maddening thirsty touch of the black beast he kept dormant in his gut; but this time he used the needle-sharp tunnel vision, tried to stay afloat. And then he _knew_. 

Korolyov should have been overjoyed to be rescued. “He does not know about Korolyov. Few do still.”

“We must be thorough.”

“ _This man is_ -“ Korolyov began to yell, only for Oleg to briskly slip a silver dart into the scientist’s neck, the fast-acting tranquiliser making Korolyov mumble to a halt, then slump down against the car.

“The shock has unbalanced him,” Oleg said dismissively. “Now go.” 

“How many people know who Korolyov really is?”

“Other than his immediate team? Ten.”

“Including you?”

“Of course.” Oleg frowned at Illya. “You know this. You are one of the ten, thanks to that mission two years ago in Chechnya. Why?”

“And he’s met you before?” Illya inquired, forcing down his agitation, his maddening anger. “He may not be calm when he wakes up if he wakes up to only strangers.”

“Yes, he has met me before in Moscow. He knows me well.” 

“I was wondering,” Illya said evenly, “How a gang of Turkish-based kidnappers managed to infiltrate Moscow and steal a scientist as prominent as Sergey Korolyov himself out from all his security, from the eyes of the KGB.”

“The Black Hand is very skilled. As you told me.”

“I think maybe it was easier than all that. I think they were not kidnappers but couriers. I think the actual kidnapping was more of a matter of misplaced trust. Wasn’t it, comrade?”

“Be careful,” Oleg said coldly. “I do not like what you are implying.” 

“Why would KGB use non-KGB mercenaries in an ‘extraction’?” Illya countered.

“And you know these not to be KGB because?” 

“Clearly they are mercenaries. Look at this one.” Illya jerked his chin at the body closest to him. “Using a Makarov, sure. But muzzle scratched with his name and trigger guard is gold-plated. The other one is using an M16, not a Kalashnikov, and it is hand-modified, not standard issue. Longer muzzle. One of us would have known better.”

Oleg stared at him for a long moment, then he shook his head slowly. “It’s a pity. You are one of the smartest and most promising of my agents. But also ruined by stubbornness. And at the end, by sentiment.” 

Illya heard the faint scrape of a step behind him, as Oleg spoke, and instinct had already pushed him into a turn, twisting on his heel to face his attacker, which was why the first two bullets hit him in the arm and spun him back against the wall and to the ground rather than shattering his spine. He squeezed the trigger on his Makarov but the shot went wild, ricocheting down the corridor, and then it was too late - Kara kicked it out of his hands, towards Oleg, then backed out of reach, carbine trained on Illya. 

“Secure,” Kara told Oleg, and smiled. 

“Good work,” Oleg replied, and Illya sucked in a pained breath, and grit his teeth, clarity coming through the agony he felt.

“Kara isn’t the Colonel. _You_ are.” 

Oleg nodded. “One of my ‘freelance’ agents located her languishing in the care of a rather shortsighted insurgent, finished her mission, and arranged for her to be nursed back to health. The Caesarea never particularly bother with rescue missions: they assume that you’d at least try to kill yourself. After Kara recovered, I placed her back in Istanbul, to build up a local operation.”

“Why?” Illya demanded. “You are the head of the KGB-“

“Only for as long as I make the right friends,” Oleg said, with a humourless smile, “And someday the right friends may end up being the wrong one. Your father is a cautionary tale - to all of us. That is not much of a life. But I would have been content to stay where I was for years more without escalating so abruptly had not everything changed over a month ago. Pity. After escalating, our Istanbul operations caught U.N.C.L.E.’s notice.”

“The Vinciguerra-“

“By failing to bring back the computer disk - by _burning it and then having a drink_ with an _American agent_ \- you destroyed not only your career but mine, Illya. We are finished in Moscow, you and I. We will be forever suspected of having been bought by the CIA. My friends are no longer my friends.” Oleg’s mirthless smile widened. “And so I had to go - before I could no longer go. As to you… I give you a choice.”

Illya forced out a laugh. “Join T.H.R.U.S.H. or die?” 

“I deplore the waste of talent.” 

Illya had been prepared for death all of his adult life - ever since that grisly reminder of mortality had been mailed to his house. Ever since he had begun working for the KGB. So he bared his teeth into a smile of his own, calm, and met Oleg’s stare evenly. 

“Go to hell, ‘ _comrade_ ’.” 

He rolled sharply away from Kara, ignoring the throb of pain up his injured arm, just as Solo fired two quick double-taps, from the end of the corridor, then another two, before wandering up unhurriedly for the insurance shots. Illya dragged himself to his feet, breathing hard, waiting for the dull ringing in his ears to stop, even as Solo checked his arm, then rounded over to check the cars, and came back. 

“Yaegar didn’t make it.” Solo said, and bent to cut a strip off Oleg’s shirt, binding Illya’s wounds tightly. “As to you, I think you’ll live.”

“I couldn’t guess,” Illya said dryly, “Since she only hit my arm. Did you find the plans?”

“All in here.” Solo patted the bag on his hip. “And you have the scientist, and we have a car. Time to drive off into the sunset.”

“Sunset is hours away.”

“You have no soul,” Solo said sadly. 

“Don’t touch my watch,” Illya growled, hauling Solo over towards him for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapter update --- Press on to the epilogue!


	14. Chapter 14

Gaby.

“Good show all round,” Waverly said, as they sat down to a defiantly English tea spread in the British embassy in Turkey. “And almost everyone is still alive, which is an added bonus.”

“Any complaints from Mossad?” Solo asked, quite happily helping himself to scones and jam and cream.

“No. It seems that our friends over there would rather pretend that none of this ever happened at all.” Waverly stirred a teaspoon of milk into his tea, the silver spoon tinkling against paper thin fine china. “Which suits our purposes, thankfully. The Americans have their plans back and the Russians have Korolyov back and everyone is more or less happy.”

“Some happier than most,” Gaby said mildly, and Solo grinned at her. 

“Yes, quite,” Waverly followed the sugar with a spot of milk. “It seems our esteemed kidnapped Russian friend was meant to try and crack the problem of refining uranium.” 

Solo raised an eyebrow. “Both of Dr Teller’s disks were destroyed.”

“Yes, well. The general documentation behind that process had been destroyed, but the daily reports of the spies-in-the-form-of-his-‘assistants’ hadn’t. Korolyov made no headway there, however, probably because he actually spent most of his time constructively critiquing NASA’s next generation spacecraft concept instead of extrapolating ICBM ideas off the Atlas-D plans, and up until he was forcibly handed over to T.H.R.U.S.H. no one had any idea what he was really doing. Thank goodness for uneducated courier-kidnapper gangs.” 

“Out of professional curiosity, Korolyov says,” Illya muttered. Illya was pointedly not eating or drinking anything, slouched in his chair at the spread. 

“Sanders says the ‘eggheads’ at NASA are going to be very pleased with what they’ll get back. Interest on return, apparently,” Solo was already finishing his first scone. “Mission accomplished.” 

“Which brings me to the important part of this meeting,” Waverly said. “I would, despite my original misgivings, like to offer the both of you a permanent job.”

Solo exchanged a glance with Illya, then he reached over to take another scone. “I don’t know if this factors into my grand plan to eventually retire in the Bahamas,” Solo admitted. 

“Oh please,” Gaby said dryly. “You will get so bored.”

“That is true,” Solo conceded. “And I also burn like a lobster under the sun, unfortunately. What do you think, Illya?”

“Returning Korolyov allows me to return to KGB. All is forgiven.” Illya said evenly. 

“And so?”

“And so I am thinking about it.” 

“Illya,” Gaby sighed. “You’re ruining the moment.”

“As he does,” Solo had actually paused in between scooping himself another dollop of jam, but now he just tugged the jam bowl closer instead. “Don’t worry, Gaby. He knows that he’ll miss us both terribly if he goes home.”

“I’ll miss Gaby. You, I think maybe not.” Illya shot back, though Gaby could read amusement in his tone, in the warmth of his drawl. 

“Well, let me know soon,” Waverly said pointedly. “Because the Professor is still out there, and I have another matter that needs attending to. I don’t have the time at present to rearrange agent schedules.”

“One more mission?” Solo grinned at Illya, and there was something more there, in the glance that they exchanged, something that didn’t need to be said. Two predators circling, Gaby thought, but not circling to do murder. This was play. 

“One more mission,” Illya conceded. 

“Where are we going now?” Gaby asked Waverly, as Solo, satisfied, seemed to decide to turn his full attention back to his scone. 

“Tokyo,” Waverly said blandly. “And you’ll all be leaving tomorrow. The plane will be ready to take off at nine hundred hours, gentlemen, try not to be late. Gaby, a further word, if you please.”

Gaby watched as Solo and Illya wandered out without further comment, Solo’s scone and tea left abandoned at the table. Waverly leaned back and sipped at his tea, until Gaby could no longer hear footsteps outside, then he let out a sigh. “Those two must have been quite the trial.” 

“I think they’ve done well given the circumstances.” Gaby said generously. 

“Oh?”

“… Maybe they could be a little more professional sometimes,” Gaby conceded, and Waverly chuckled.

“Miss Teller, the further you get around in the Game, the more you realize that a great deal of it is actually played by boys who loved games of pretend or hide and seek while growing up and never actually did stop playing them.”

“So I’ve started to realize.” 

“As such I find myself in a bit of crossroads. You’ve exhibited remarkable poise and presence of mind for someone relatively new to this business.”

“I’ve was recruited by you years ago,” Gaby reminded Waverly.

“But this is still effectively only your second mission,” Waverly countered.

“Illya and Napoleon didn’t actually need much supervision.”

“That’s what most agents would tell their handlers at first instance. But it’s never true.” Waverly smiled thinly. “Take it from a man who’s been on both sides of the line, shall we say.” 

“So what’s this about then, sir?” Gaby asked boldly.

“It’s rare for male agents to be good enough to be the sort of fixers I am looking for. It’s rarer for women. Sadly, the world as we know it is poised to pigeonhole the women within it into particular roles at birth, boxing them in to rigid ideas of what they should and should not be doing, and precious few women rise into the Game with the necessary skill set, the necessary nerve and _mindset_.” 

“I was told that one does not need to know how to shoot a gun to play the Game.” Gaby said stiffly. 

“Marksmanship can be learned, and is, as you’ve heard, not fully necessary to qualify to play. My point is, I think that you’d make an excellent full agent, with further training.” 

“But I’ll be taken out of this team,” Gaby predicted. “Because U.N.C.L.E. works in two-agent teams.” 

“Kuryakin and Solo do seem to have a particular sort of explosive chemistry where that is concerned,” Waverly said delicately. “While I’m not entirely sure if you’d necessarily enjoy working in a two-agent team with either of them.” 

Because Solo and Illya were already both too used to working on their own, and would view another agent who lacked experience and their talent as a hindrance. And more importantly - Gaby knew that they had already boxed _her_ away, assumed that they knew the beginning and the end of her, because of her youth, perhaps, or her looks, or her lack of military experience. It was changing, a little. But it would not change quickly. 

“I know,” Gaby said instead. 

“It’ll be better for you to learn the ropes as part of a two-agent team with a partner who’ll be patient, efficient, and more importantly, is someone who has no preconceptions about women whatsoever.” Waverly continued. “As it so happens, I do have such an agent without a partner. Her name is Victoria Winslow, and she is the most impressive agent to come out of MI6 in her generation.”

Now it was Gaby who was standing at a crossroads, with her fate in her hands. She could walk one way or the other with just a single word: and she felt light-headed, all of a sudden, powerful: Gaby wished that she could wrap this moment up, keep it safe within her forever. 

“And you’ll assign Napoleon and Illya a new handler?”

“As well as prescribe said new handler a lifelong supply of alcohol and tylenol,” Waverly agreed wryly. “But I’ll manage. Handlers are relatively easy to find.”

“I think that I am not yet ready,” Gaby said, slow, almost reluctant, but her mind had been made up on this days ago, when she had left her hotel, broken into a car and driven out to find Solo and Illya alone. For now, she was not yet ready to go. “But in the future, we will see.”

Waverly nodded as though he had expected this answer all along. “Keep me posted.”

They shook hands, and Gaby left, her step brisk. Outside, in the morning sun, she found Solo and Illya loitering idly at the embassy gate. Illya was leaning against a blue Mustang, courtesy of Waverly, his hands in his pockets, expressionless as she grinned at them and headed over.

“Fancy seeing you boys still here,” Gaby said, as Solo pushed away from where he had been leaning in the shade of the wall. 

“What a coincidence,” Solo said, in the same bland tone, and returned her impish grin. 

“Are you still coming to Tokyo?” Illya asked bluntly. They had both guessed at what her talk with Waverly had been about, then.

Or had listened in. She knew they had no shame whatsoever where that was concerned. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Gaby told him, and Illya nodded curtly, as though satisfied, and got into the back of the car. Solo playfully offered Gaby his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook with a flourish of her own that made him laugh. 

“I suppose we can’t _quite_ manage without our getaway driver,” Solo noted, with a wink, and just for that, Gaby made sure to drive _particularly_ like a madwoman all the way back to the safehouse.

Illya.

Tokyo was in the middle of a frantic reconstruction effort, gearing up to host the Summer Olympics next year. A high-speed train line was being rushed through, overhead expressways being built, residential areas being depopulated. Estuaries were thick with waste and debris, canals stank, and the air was gritty and hazy.

“The smell of progress,” Solo said blithely, as they walked hurriedly through Nihonbashi, under a gigantic highway that loomed over a graceful old bridge of stone on a steel frame. Illya made no answer, trying not to breathe until they were a street away from the canal.

“Stupid reason to spend money.” 

“Can’t stop progress. Also, apparently it’s inspirational.” 

“Corruption is everywhere. And the Yakuza. Money brings out all the rats.” Illya shook his head slowly. “It is like this all over the world. Evidence that T.H.R.U.S.H. is here, so far very shaky.”

“Yes, well, I had a feeling that Waverly wanted to stash us all somewhere that wasn’t Istanbul, New York or Moscow until the dust had settled.” 

“Waste of time,” Illya declared, though he relaxed a fraction. He did not quite want to be back in Moscow, either, and had been grateful when Korolyov’s transfer back to Moscow had not required Illya’s presence. For although Oleg had turned out to be the Colonel, it had not been an easy thing to lie still and let Napoleon shoot Oleg dead. For good or for ill, Oleg had been a part of Illya’s life for almost the entirety of his tenure in the KGB.

Solo studied him curiously as they passed a shuttered shophouse. There weren’t many people on the street at this time of night, where they were, and there weren’t likely to be many people where they were headed.

“About what Oleg said about the disk.”

Illya tried not to tense up, but probably failed to control himself in time. “What about it?”

“I suppose I didn’t quite think the consequences through at the time.” 

Illya raised an eyebrow. “Conclusion was right.” His mouth curled faintly. “According to Waverly, anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t regret _doing_ it,” Solo agreed easily. “I just didn’t exactly think about how it was going to ruin both our lives, apparently.”

“We are still here.” Illya said indifferently. “And it seems all is forgiven. For both of us.” 

“We destroyed something that could’ve given our countries permanent leverage over every other country in the world,” Solo pointed out. “Do you really think that returning some annotated rocket ship plans - or returning a rocket ship scientist - is going to square us with our agencies?”

“You have point,” Illya agreed, after a pause. “Although Korolyov is _not_ just a ‘rocket ship scientist’.”

“Face it, Peril. Like it or not, we effectively resigned when we did what we did. It’s just taken us until now to fully realize it.” Solo seemed positively cheerful about that thought. 

“You were planning on running.” Illya said accusingly. “Gaby told me about the package. At ‘usual drop off’, was it?”

“Oh, with Kara turning out the way she did, it was probably a trap.” 

“Not talking about whether it is trap or not. You still paid her for ‘life insurance’. I know what that means,” Illya narrowed his eyes. “Full reset. Passports, papers, everything.” 

“And it would have been a nice little Plan C to have,” Solo shot back evenly, unrepentant, “If everything had gone utterly pear-shaped. Illya, if I had wanted to run, I would’ve taken you up on your offer to cover for me with Gaby and Waverly. Remember?” 

True. “And how is your Plan C now?”

“Still in progress, if this doesn’t work out.” Solo admitted, then paused. “You could come too, if you liked. I could get two sets of ‘passports, papers, everything’. We could stop running on the hamster wheel, get away from the Game.”

Illya looked away. The devil was whispering into his ear, blood to blood, a predator’s game of temptation and circumstance. “You want to ‘take me away from all this’?” Illya asked instead, as sardonically as he could.

“If I could. If you wanted.” 

“What about Gaby?”

“I think Gaby will take up Waverly’s rather excellent counter offer sooner or later.” 

Also true. There was a great deal of nerve and steel in Gaby Teller that would be wasted if she stayed a handler all her life, in Illya’s opinion. “Go where? House on the beach, white picket fence?” Illya snorted. “You know that is not how this will end.” 

“People who do what we do don’t often reach retirement age, Peril,” Solo said soberly. “Believe me, I know how this will end - if we keep doing what we do. Someday we’ll be too slow, or too unlucky, or just plain outclassed. In the Game, the House almost always wins.”

“I never play to lose,” Illya retorted. “And neither do you, I think.” They had that much in common, at least. 

Solo glanced up at the cloudy sky, starless, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. Somewhere under that black wool jacket was a pistol, and at least one knife, at least one set of lockpicks. Teeth and claws. As Illya stared, Solo breathed in, then out, and it was the jackal that smiled back at Illya, that smiled, wild, a little rueful, joyous in its element; in that moment Illya would have followed Solo to Hell itself and back.

“No. I suppose we don’t.”

Napoleon.

One mission turned into two, and then three, and then not even Illya could keep pretending that he would someday return to the KGB. CIA agents stopped following Illya around New York, and Napoleon’s apartment started to accumulate things that were not precisely in line with the decor, like new shelves of books and a practice mat. The spare wardrobe filled up with turtlenecks and black shirts and a suit or two, and the hidden armoury was growing crowded with different hardware.

“What’s wrong with _my_ guns?” Napoleon protested, as Illya rearranged another pistol on the starkly lit wall of the armoury behind the false wall. 

“Americans like complicated guns,” Illya said absently, as he studied the rack. “Guns that need to be maintained regularly and sometimes will jam anyway. Guns should be simple. Built for how combat is. Dirty and ugly. Not how it should be. That is Russian way.” 

“As if _you’ve_ never had a Kalashnikov jam on you when it counted.”

“Not as many times as an M16.” 

“It has lower recoil, better range and accuracy,” Napoleon argued. “5.56 NATO cartridges, better velocity than the heavier 7.62s.” 

“Heavier means better stopping power. Also, range and accuracy, very comforting statistics if not jammed.” 

“They’ll iron out the problems eventually,” Napoleon said optimistically, “Also I can’t believe that we’re arguing about this. It’s like debating the difference between one brand of milk and another.” 

Illya stiffened, like an offended cat. “Is _not_ like arguing over milk!” 

“All right, Illya.” Napoleon slouched into a love seat nearer to the balcony, giving up. “Feel free to replace the M16 in there with a Kalashnikov if it makes you feel happier about life.”

Illya muttered something disparaging under his breath, still rummaging around as Napoleon turned his eyes over to the view of the park instead, and considered maybe pouring himself a scotch to celebrate how pleasantly warm the afternoon was-

“What is _this_?”

Illya was holding up a custom pistol, all its fittings currently attached - shoulder stock, sight mount, extended magazine and a barrel extension. 

“Don’t start on me. I know that you’ve used it.” It was a P.38 Special, the strange multi-purpose gun that some of U.N.C.L.E.’s special eggheads had cooked up. Napoleon had, as of a week ago, finally found the third entrance to the U.N.C.L.E. base, and had taken a look around, out of a Spirit of Innocent Inquiry, and since he had been in the base anyway, had decided to leave with a souvenir.

“You said you preferred original Walther.”

“I do, but there’s something to be said about a gun that aspires to be a firearms version of a Swiss Army knife. Also I went to a great deal of trouble to steal that particular prototype from the labs, so I’ll prefer that you didn’t put it in your ‘Not the Russian Way’ pile.”

“What is new about this one?”

“Shoots everything under the sun as well as bullets, apparently. Or it tries to.” 

“Downsides?”

“There’s sadly some truth behind what you said about complicated weapons.” Not that complexity was necessarily a turn-off where Napoleon was concerned. Particularly if Illya was involved.

Illya grunted, but put it back on the rack, then closed the false wall, to Napoleon’s surprise, and padded over to curl lazily over Napoleon’s knees and bury his mouth in Napoleon’s neck. The loveseat creaked alarmingly under their shared weight, but Napoleon chuckled and tilted up his jaw and stroked a palm down Illya’s thigh, to the crook of his knee. Illya smelled teasingly of gun grease and leather, and Napoleon breathed deep, his cock starting to stir under Illya’s hip. 

“We’re meant to meet Gaby for dinner in two hours,” Napoleon warned, if halfheartedly, as Illya started to nip. 

“So maybe we save time and do it on this chair.” Illya flashed Napoleon a smile that was all teeth, and purred as Napoleon squirmed under him, biting down on a groan. 

“If you break this chair as well,” Napoleon curled his fingers up lightly against the back of Illya’s neck, “You’re buying me another one.” 

“Done.”

This was not quite like retiring in the Bahamas, not quite like getting free of everything that bound him to a line of work to which Napoleon was not entirely temperamentally suited. Someday, Napoleon knew that he would grow restless again, that he would turn around and gnaw on his leash, seek to slip it, disappear. 

But now Napoleon welcomed the lips at his neck, welcomed the hand curling around his waist, the fingers hitching up a thigh; he let the wolf come closer, and closer yet, and finally grinned as teeth closed tight over his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Finished! :) Thanks for reading! 
> 
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent
> 
> \--  
> Final notes:  
> \+ Simple weapons - Reference to Lee Child's Make Me. His books are a great way of learning how to write about guns/firearms combat.  
> \+ This fic involved way, way too much 1960s research. Exhausting. D: Not sure if I still want to do it, but it's been fun!


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